


Kiss Trick

by the_ragnarok



Series: Allowed [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Asexuality, Established Relationship, F/F, Heist, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been worried about this job from the beginning. With good reason, it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Trick

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some oblique mentions of past dub-con - please tread carefully.  
> Amazingly fast beta by Sirona, who is great and awesome. All hail.

A couple of young men are squirming and grunting on Eames' screen. He's watching them with a critical eye. It's not that he's unfamiliar with the steps of this particular dance, but he's been feeling himself go stale, in need of inspiration. There is, after all, such a thing as professional pride.

It's not that he means to use these moves, per se, where anyone is actually meant to watch. It's more that he needs to have the promise of them hidden under his skin.

Eames grins, suddenly, and thinks of his latest creation. She's a slim brunette with a Dushku-esque pout that he calls Alex, and until his very recent adjustments she was completely unremarkable. Fine for blending in with a twenty-something crowd, slightly more than reasonably attractive, but otherwise no better than dozens of faces he can pull off.

The memory of her stirs something in him. He shuts the laptop screen, slides it down to rest safely on the couch and rushes into the study, where he keeps all his working materials. He has drawings of her lying in a messy pile on the desk, quick sketches that wouldn't look like anything to anyone but him. He pulls a fresh sheet of paper, grabs a pencil, and sits down to add another sketch.

It's all in the range of movement, that's the secret. More basic than even body language; the minute changes in angle and speed as she raises her hand to aim a gun, the muscles in her calves when she walks in high heels. Things that signify danger, to Eames, and signify very different things to people with specific tastes.

He covers three more pages in the clean, swift lines he favors. The tips of his fingers are blackened with graphite. His eyes are burning, mostly because it's three in the goddamn morning. He ought to take a shower and go to sleep.

Instead he goes back to the couch, unfreezes the video and studies it. It's useless, really, he's too tired to even think, let alone properly analyze, set the things that mean _sex_ apart from the individualities of this particular pairing. It's not work anymore, and it's hardly entertainment.

What it really is, is avoidant behavior, but if Eames thinks about that, he'll end up despondent and generally useless. He places a hand on the laptop's cover, resolute to shut it, when he's drawn back to look at the screen again.

He would have thought it an accident, somebody leaving the camera on too long, but the people on his screen are clean of all the bodily fluids they were covered in only moments ago. One of them, dark-haired and lean, has his face tucked into the other's shoulder. Through the laptop's crappy built-in speakers, the contented sigh he makes is barely even recognizable as a human sound.

Eames turns the volume up. They don't talk, the two men he's watching, and there's nothing much to hear but heavy breaths slowly evening out as they curl around each other. Then the scene fades to black, and Eames is left blinking at the youporn "replay?" button.

This is ridiculous. He needs to go to bed. Eames rubs his eyes and sighs, cursing as he gets off the couch.

His phone vibrates. Eames stumbles and steadies himself on the couch, mouth already shaping into a grin. On the one hand, he doesn't know who it is; on the other, who the fuck _can_ it be at bloody half-past-three in the morning?

As it turns out, the text _is_ from Arthur, and Eames allows himself a moment of completely unbecoming joy at reading it. _Flight landed, taking a taxi home_.

The sky is turning pale by the time Eames hears the key twisting in the lock. He's already resigned himself to staying awake and being utterly useless the next day.

Arthur wrestles his suitcase inside, then lets it drop on the floor as Eames sets on hugging him through the wall, if at all possible. Arthur's arms come to wrap around him, strong enough to strangle and so bloody welcome that Eames can't help a surge of affection. He kisses it into Arthur, trying to pass on the entire indignity of the situation to him, but to no avail. Arthur just pours it all back into him, until Eames has no choice but to push away and drag Arthur to bed with him.

He slaps Arthur's hands away when he tries to undress himself, too impatient to feel skin on skin, unbuttoning Arthur's shirt with the nimbleness one gains after a lifetime of petty theft. Eames is only wearing boxers and a ratty robe, so when Arthur is bared Eames only has to shrug the robe off and crawl into bed after him.

Lying on top of Arthur, eyes closed, Eames feels like he can breathe properly for the first time in six weeks.

Arthur's hand curls at the back of Eames' neck, proprietary. "Missed you, too," he says. It was probably meant to come out a lot drier than it did.

Eames leans up on an elbow, bending down to nose at the curve of Arthur's jaw. "Good," Eames says, "because I missed the _fuck_ out of you, darling."

Arthur's laughter is shaky. He pulls Eames down for a kiss, and Eames goes happily. He could basically do this forever, taking in how Arthur's mouth is soft inside, beyond the first hard barrier of teeth, how his lips move against Eames', the spasmodic clutch of his hand in Eames' hair.

He can feel Arthur's cock stirring against his thigh. Eames feels a flicker of dismay warring with the torrent of affection still strong in him, a small voice in him whining _Must he?_

Arthur must have felt something, because he's flinching, retreating with a muttered "Sorry," and, no, this cannot be allowed to go on. Eames tightens his arms around Arthur.

This is a surprisingly effective method; for all that the barest hint of rough treatment – biting beyond a nibble, scratching unless asked, hair tugging – makes Arthur prickle without fail, he is astoundingly amenable to manhandling. He relaxes in Eames' grip immediately, and Eames leans down to kiss him, because it's important to reward cooperation.

And also, admittedly, because he fucking likes to. But that's neither here nor there right now.

After the first moment, Arthur's arousal isn't a cause for apprehension or displeasure. Eames would be perfectly within his rights to ignore it utterly, or to request that Arthur take care of it elsewhere before they resume cuddling. But Arthur's frustration is almost palpable, a tangible thing, and Eames can't bear it any more than he could bear Arthur removing himself from his vicinity for any length of time just now.

Instead he takes Arthur's cock in hand, warmed at the sudden clenching of Arthur's hands on his shoulders. Mouths a kiss into Arthur's chest. "I'll just be taking care of that, darling, hmm?"

Arthur whimpers, and Eames grins in private victory, kissing his way down. Arthur's hands on his shoulder tremble and let go. Eames catches on of those hands in his own, entwining their fingers as he pulls Arthur's cock into his mouth.

In and of itself, there is nothing about this act that Eames finds objectionable. Arthur's skin is lovely to feel, to rub against and taste, here just as in all of Arthur's other parts. A touch, a kiss in passing – Eames is glad to bestow those, and feels deprived when he can't. It's just that to offer Arthur satisfaction, Eames has to stay at the same point and move in fairly specific ways.

It's a labor of love, but it's labor nonetheless.

Still, Eames can't resent it when it makes Arthur quite this obviously happy, and Arthur obliges him by not taking his time achieving climax quite as much as he could. Eames heeds the warning tug of Arthur's hand and backs away to pull Arthur through his orgasm by hand, kissing Arthur's thigh because it's there and it hasn't been in _ages_.

As Eames crawls back up, Arthur mumbles, "You know, I used to apologize for having a hair trigger like that."

Eames chuckles and smoothes Arthur's hair back. Arthur pulls away for a minute to clean himself up. Eames patiently waits for him to be finished before wrapping himself securely around Arthur. "So, how _was_ the job?"

Arthur snorts. "Boring as fuck. We got another offer out of it, at least. Want a look?"

"In the morning," Eames says, firmly ignoring the fact that technically it _is_ morning. Right now he wants to feel Arthur falling asleep in his arms, and he refuses to let anything distract him from his goal.

~~

Eames dreams about trees, and water.

He knows this place. It's a lake, a beautiful place they visited once when he was very young. That's his mum by the water's edge, in her yellow sundress and pink floppy straw hat. She's sitting in the dappled shade of the oak trees. Eames joins her.

When she turns her face at him, it's not the one he associated with this place and these clothes, but as he last saw it, weathered and sallow with sickness. He takes her hand, careful of the fragile skin there.

"We never came back here," he says, after a short while. "I always wondered why."

She laughs, and it's a young sound. "Oh, we couldn't," she says. "Don't you remember? When we left, you cried as if your heart was breaking."

"It was," he says. He'd wanted to stay, begged his father to buy the place for him.

His mother looks now just as she did then, amused and exasperated. "Whatever would you have done with it?" It's the same question she’d asked then.

"Kept it," Eames says, and the dream dissolves.

Eames wakes up feeling disoriented. His dreams have always been half-lucid, even before he first laid eyes on a PASIV. Come to think of it, that he's dreaming at all is a sign that he'd been too long away from real work. He wanted to take some time off, to wallow in his private creations and pleasures. Arthur, thus far, humored him, only half-heartedly dangling interesting jobs in attempt to catch his interest.

When Eames finally manages to drag himself out of bed, Arthur is sitting at the kitchen table wearing a robe and slippers, with a mug of coffee cooling next to him and the New York Times spread out in front of him. Eames kisses his shoulder and goes to make himself tea.

"How long have you been up?" he inquires as he tries to find his favorite cup among the piles of unwashed dishes.

"A few hours," Arthur says. Eames glances at the clock and winces; it's nearly four in the afternoon. "I'll wash the dishes soon, okay?"

Eames snorts. "The dishes are the least of my concerns. Have you eaten anything?"

Arthur makes a noise that Eames correctly interprets as _Eating is overrated_. "I'll just make some eggs, shall I?"

"You don't have to feed me," Arthur says.

"Only if I want you to eat," Eames agrees. He fishes the frying pan from the bottom of the dish pile, grinning when Arthur shoulders past him and unsubtly nudges him away. He watches as Arthur pushes his sleeves up and roots in the dirty water for the sponge.

Between the two of them, breakfast – brunch? Early dinner? – is soon enough arranged. Once they are both fed to Eames' satisfaction and Arthur clears the dishes, Eames says, "So. About this job you mentioned."

Arthur pulls a file out of his briefcase, opening it to one of numerous bookmarks placed therein. "This is Alfred Bayliss," he says, pointing at a picture pinned to a bullet-pointed list of factoids. "All the information about him is in here, but basically he's a CEO and the rival company wants to know what he knows."

This is bog-standard, far less intriguing than the prospects Arthur's been using to tempt Eames back into the field recently. "Positively plebeian, Arthur," he says, eyebrows rising. "What is the catch?"

Arthur looks embarrassed. "There isn't one, really. I just thought it would be an easy job to pull solo, if you didn't feel like getting back into the field yet."

"Or with an unreliable team," Eames says. Arthur nods assent. He often picks these humdrum jobs as an excuse to test the merit of people new to their fields.

And yet, Eames has a feeling this may be more complicated than it looks. If only because Arthur suggested it to him, and Arthur's gut instinct is rarely wrong about these things. "I'll look at it," he says, trying for noncommittal and probably missing by a mile, if Arthur's grin is anything to judge by.

~~

Eames is leafing through Arthur's research, taking his own notes – _Mark appears to be fond of double-dealing, solitary man (choice or lack thereof?), art collector, likely militarized_ – when Arthur calls him from the study.

When Eames putters over, Arthur is going through his sketches of Alex. "These are good," Arthur says. "Could you show her to me?"

"Right this moment?" Eames thinks it over. "All right, but you have to set up the equipment."

He waits until Arthur drags the PASIV from where it lives under their bed and uncoils the tubing before adding, "You know, it's commonly considered rude to go through people's private belongings like this."

Arthur frowns. "This is for work," he says.

"This is for me," Eames corrects. He doesn't want to make this into a fight, but it's an important distinction.

Thankfully, Arthur accepts this with a small nod and says, "Sorry," so Eames can smile and extend his wrist for the IV.

They come under in one of Arthur's generic settings, a martial arts dojo that's extremely useful for showing off his creations' physical abilities. The wall-length mirror doesn't hurt, either. Eames tries to relax, to put himself in the mindspace where he can change his skin. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and reaching for focus.

Forging is a lot like singing, Eames finds, in that the training appears to consist mainly of metaphors people either swear by or declare to be complete bullshit. What works best for Eames is the dot method, in which one imagines the target to be forged as a matrix of coordinates similar to old motion-capture technologies. It's very effective but rather a lot to hold in one's mind all at once, which means Eames can't afford to be distracted by annoyance.

So Eames opens his eyes and pins Arthur with a look. "I just want to make this absolutely clear," he says. "I do not appreciate you looking at my private work. Please refrain from doing so without permission, and in return I won't invade _your_ privacy. Is this understood?"

"Fine," Arthur says with a shrug. "There's nothing I can think of that I mind you looking at. Feel free." He narrows his eyes at Eames. "I said I was sorry already. Is this going to be a thing?"

Eames stares at Arthur. For once, Arthur is the first who breaks, coming close to rest his head against Eames' shoulder. "It's not a thing," Eames says, his hand rising to slide through Arthur's hair. "I just needed to know everything was clear."

"I promise to ask permission next time," Arthur says, and pulls away. "Okay. Now I want to see her."

There's something like hunger in Arthur's expression, an expectant look that warms Eames straight through. Arthur doesn't pay him compliments often, but this is better.

Getting into Alex's physical form is only a matter of spatial thinking. Her mindset is more difficult, her worldview a complex half-lit thing, changing by the angle it's viewed and yet always the same; mistrustful, hard and self-serving. Eames likes her.

Then Alex opens her eyes, and stares down the man in front of her. She sizes him up as an opponent, eyes darting glances at the spots where he's likely to be hiding weapons. She smirks when he gives her the same measuring look.

She should be polite. "Alex," she says, offering him her hand to shake.

He doesn't give her his name, only shakes her hand and nods. Then he blinks, and the everyday clothes he was wearing – jeans and a sweater-vest, comfortable house clothes – shift into a pair of loose black cotton pants and nothing else. The expression he's wearing is a challenge, and she's glad to accept.

She takes off everything she's wearing but the tank top and pants, and goes into position to face him, her weapons all discarded on the floor. He kicks at her without warning, high enough that he'd have hit her in the chin if she hadn't known to duck.

He moves in a pattern that makes _sense_ to her, in some innate way she can't articulate. She punches and he dodges; he attempts a hold and she twists out of it; it's a fight and a dance and just plain _fun_ , and he seems to sense this and turn it into almost a game. He feints a punch and reaches to grab her ankle; she does a backflip and comes to stand a few yards away, staring him down, the both of them breathing hard.

Arthur's the first to start laughing. Eames only realizes he dropped the forge when he finds himself joining him, delighted, nearly giddy.

"She's pretty decent," Arthur says. "Hey, did you base her moves on mine?"

"Guilty as charged," Eames says, cheerful.

Arthur shakes his head. "And to think you gave me crap for going through your papers."

"Shouldn't I have?" Eames gives Arthur his best searching look. Arthur is still grinning widely, though, the dimples Eames enjoys so much coming out in full force.

"Kidding, jeez," Arthur says. He lies down on one of the mats, arms behind his head. Eames lies down to join him. "No, really. She's good. What do you think you'll use her for?"

This is the problem with Arthur's normally admirable practicality. No appreciation of art for its own sake. "I don't know," Eames says. "Surely an opportunity will present itself."

Arthur turns to look at Eames, his eyes narrowing. "You want to use her for seductions, don't you?"

No point beating around the bush, even though a small part of Eames wants to groan, _Not this again_. "I might," Eames says evenly. "She is based on you in part, though. I'll understand if you don't want me to use her that way."

"I – no, that's not it." Arthur sits up, cross-legged, and rakes a hand through his hair. "I don't care about her. Or, not her in particular." Arthur's expression is the calm one he wears when everything goes to absolute shit. "I don't want you doing seductions at all," he says, with a tone of finality. "I mean, I realize I don't have a vote in that. But if you're asking me, don't."

Eames stays where he is, only moving as far as he needs to meet Arthur's eyes. "It's a way for me to do my job, Arthur. An incredibly efficient way, you might want to bear in mind."

Arthur comes closer. He hesitates for a moment before lying down again, now with his head pillowed on Eames' stomach. Eames exhales, his hand coming to rest on Arthur's shoulder of its own volition.

"I know," Arthur says.

Eames rubs slowly up and down Arthur's back, consciously slowing down his breathing. "Are you jealous?" Putting it in softer terms won't help. Eames doesn't entirely understand Arthur's unwavering insistence on monogamy, but it seems to be important to him, so Eames plays along.

"What? No." Arthur pushes up to grace Eames with the full strength of his frown. "It's just something I don't think you should have to do."

"I hardly _have_ to," Eames says, a little terse because he's so bloody tired of this argument already.

Arthur's hand crawls up to touch Eames' face. Eames turns into it, irritation fading to nothing. They move until they're lying on their sides, facing each other. "I know," Arthur repeats. "Look, I realize I'm being stupid here. But you asked, okay?"

Moments like these, Eames thinks he can't bear it, everything gathering inside him with no outlet. Words are insufficient, and there's nothing he can do but grab Arthur to him and hold on for dear life. In these moments, when Arthur's grip on him is just as fierce, Eames doesn't know what to _do_ with all the affection he's filled with, doesn't know what he can give to Arthur to make up for it.

That's... very nearly a problem. These days, Eames shifts wildly between annoyance at the things Arthur wants from him, sharp pangs of heartache that he can't just give them to him, and the occasional soaring joy when what he does find in himself to give is not found lacking.

Arthur's looking at him sharply. "I can hear you being an idiot inside your head," Arthur says. "Stop it."

"I didn't realize telepathy was one of your myriad skills, Arthur." Eames squeezes him. "I do wish you’d told me earlier. It would have saved us no end of grief."

Arthur laughs softly, or perhaps that's just the breath knocked out of him by the strength of Eames' grip. "You have that expression you get when you're thinking about noble romantic bullshit. I just don't know _what_ you're thinking."

Eames pretends to ponder this. "Is that an invitation to share?"

Arthur smushes his face into Eames' collarbone. "Oh, God. You did not just say that."

The strange thing is, Eames does want to talk. It's easier like this, lying together in a room that isn't even real, words pushed up by the sheer volume of everything else Eames is holding inside. "Don't you miss fucking people?"

Arthur moves away a little, still close enough that Eames can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He looks at the ceiling and frowns. "Not that much. Given the choice, I'll take a mouth over an ass or a pussy, any time." He tilts his head away. "Kinda miss getting fucked, though."

Eames smoothes a hand across Arthur's hair, just something to do while he thinks. He's not going to suggest other people; that solution has met... a less than happy response when last offered, and Eames likes to think he can learn from past mistakes.

An idea occurs. His hand stills on the back of Arthur's neck, drawing a muffled noise from him. "How long until the dream ends?" Eames says.

Arthur's brow furrows. "Dunno. Half an hour?"

That should suffice for what Eames has in mind. He gets up with a murmured apology. Arthur curls up on the mat, dark eyes watching Eames as he moves to face the mirror.

Constructing a projection is not harder than forging, exactly. The process is different, in some ways more similar to dream-architecture than it is to Eames' chosen vocation. You have to build it in your mind, to force reality into what you want it to be.

But as in forging, you need the correct mindset; and as in forging, a mirror helps.

Eames stares at his reflection and touches the mirror. The glass has a little give to it, like pushing a finger into a mixture of water and corn starch. With careful pressing, the face in the mirror changes. Eames modifies the nose into a straight patrician line, shifts the angle of the cheekbones.

This isn't the important part, though. It's just something for Eames’ hands to do while he tries, in his mind, to fall into a space where he is filled with the approximation of desire. It's nothing he hasn't mimicked before, after all, often to good effect. It starts from affection, and is combined with the desire to touch, to taste, to experience. These are easy.

The next part is harder, but in a strange way also enjoyable. Eames shifts the general inclination for contact into a wish to be touched _here_ , an all-consuming urge to _have_ into a fairly specific act.

When he's done, the projection steps out of the mirror, and Arthur springs to his feet, immediately wary.

The projection reaches for Arthur, wordless. Arthur looks at Eames, doubtful. Eames says, "Would it hurt you to try?"

"I really fucking hope not," Arthur mutters, but he steps into the projection's personal space. Eames should probably think of a name for it – for him. But he's a haphazard job, this projection, a makeshift creation of half-simulated lust, and Eames can't think of him as anything but a tool for a purpose.

Maybe that's why everything turns sour so fast. One moment the projection is kissing Arthur, gentle and respectful. The next, Arthur is pinned to the ground with his hand twisted behind his back, the projection growling something that Eames is quite glad he can't hear.

Another moment, and the projection is lying on the ground, neck broken, then fading into nothing.

Eames stares at the empty space where it was. "That went well," he says, drily.

He expects Arthur to say something biting, to shoot himself out of the dream – their professional equivalent of storming out in a huff. Arthur just looks tired. "Sorry," he says.

"Sorry?" Eames repeats, blinking at Arthur. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm reasonably sure this was my fault."

Arthur shakes his head. "You couldn't have done that," he says. "I know your projections, Eames. They shoot to kill, not to maim."

Eames is very, very glad that this is mostly a metaphor. "So you're saying this must be your fault," he says, slowly, so Arthur can grasp the full ridiculousness of that statement.

"Yeah." Arthur's gaze is steady. If it weren't for the tiny twitches in his hands, tells he'd all but trained away, Eames might have thought Arthur is taking this calmly.

"Arthur – "

"Look," Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Words fail me, so I'll explain this with Venn diagrams, okay?"

He conjures a whiteboard. Eames stares, entranced. "You actually went and said that," he murmurs. "I may have to redefine entirely what I find attractive."

Arthur snorts. "Pay attention, Mr. Eames," and for a moment his clothes change and he's suddenly wearing horn-rimmed glasses. The image flickers back as quick as it had appeared, but now... Well, if Eames had ever wondered what Arthur might have looked like as a sexy librarian, he need wonder no more.

At a flick of Arthur's fingers, a dry-erase marker appears, and Arthur [draws two circles on the board](http://twitpic.com/3jv7ov). Above the circles, he writes, 'People Arthur Has Been Involved With'. In one circle, he writes, 'Scary Mofos', and in the other he writes 'Sexually Disinterested'.

"By this point in time," Arthur says, and thank goodness he hasn't whipped out an actual _time line_ , because Eames would have had to shoot something, "my brain is hard-wired to believe everyone is one or the other, and generally to assume the worse."

Eames says, "So when presented with a lovely man who professes a wish to make gentle love to you..."

"I assume he's being paid by someone to stab me and dump my body in a ditch," Arthur says. "Or else he might just do it for fun." He glares at the board as though it offended him personally. "And what I believe, my mind makes real."

Eames eyes the intersection between the circles, which is marked 'Killers With a Type'. "That can't have been good for your dating prospects."

"Not very," Arthur says, grim.

Eames has been more relieved to hear the first strains of their cue, but not by much.

"But seriously," Eames says once they're both awake. "Your love life can't have been made entirely of traumatic mishaps."

"Want to bet?" At the look Eames gives him, though, Arthur's smile fades into something more rueful. "If it helps, I do realize my love life was basically one big self-fulfilling prophecy." At Eames' inquiring noise, Arthur says, "I don't think I can tell people are flirting with me unless knives are involved at some point."

Eames arches an eyebrow at that. "And here I thought I made my interest in you positively blatant."

Arthur sighs. "See, I can tell when people _like_ me. It's the wanting to fuck me that's an issue." He looks at Eames, and loses the smile completely. "Sorry."

"You shouldn't be," Eames says quietly. He wishes he believed Arthur would listen to him.

~~

The first time Eames worked with Arthur was shortly before Mal's unfortunate turn. His first impression of Arthur wasn't of particular note – professional, does his job well, and as far as Eames was concerned, that was it.

Eames doesn't remember much of the job itself, which at first appeared to be of some mild interest – vault combinations and secret panels; fun, but nothing very important. Then halfway through it shifted into screaming chaos.

Because militarization was new at the time, none of them expected it. Nobody even thought to look for it. Arthur was just starting out then as an architect, newly minted and very highly recommended for his meticulous work. Their point man was a grizzled veteran by the name of Parkinson, who'd been skipping in and out of dreamsharing since the technology was first invented.

Five minutes inside the dream, the mark's projection took Parkinson down. Eames would have gone to help him, except he was busy getting his face ground into the dirt by a projection of an old man swearing at him to get off his (presumably metaphorical) lawn.

Eames managed to get away due to a combination of semi-remembered combat training and some truly undignified wriggling, put a shot through the projection's head, and prepared to put the next one through his own – he who fights and runs away, et cetera.

Except then he felt a hand landing on his shoulder, and a voice said, "Come on," right into his ear before grabbing his arm and running like hell. It was something strange, then, to look aside and realize that the bloody _architect_ was the one who stayed alive, who was weaving through enemy lines, ducking live fire and jumping from two stories' height into a shop awning and from there to the sidewalk, rolling through the impact and jumping right back to his feet.

"Pardon me," Eames panted, two steps behind Arthur. "But _where_ the bloody fuck are we going?"

Without even glancing at Eames, Arthur says, "We'll get to a shortcut in five minutes." _If you can stop talking and run_ seemed to be implied.

Eames, for whom _not_ being torn to pieces by angry projections was always a high priority, shut up and ran after Arthur until they reached a brick wall. Fortunately, Eames knew enough by then about dream construction that he didn't say anything, just watched Arthur expectantly, and thus was prevented from embarrassing himself when Arthur pulled a brick out of the wall and the ground dropped under their feet.

Arthur's shortcut was halfway between a trapdoor and a slide. Eames had to strongly rein in the urge to shout in delight as they tumbled down, slipping over smooth stone in the darkness, coming to a stop in a mess of tangled limbs.

There was a pause as they rose, and the dark was pierced by the LED from Arthur's cell phone. Arthur swung it around for a minute before declaring, "North," and setting in the appropriate direction.

They were going through tunnels, vast damp places that put Eames in mind of the Gothic style, and also ninja turtles. Arthur never once seemed lost. Then again, why would he? He built this place himself, spent hours poring over tiny model buildings that Eames paid little attention to. Eames was starting to regret that.

Then Arthur stopped, for no reason that Eames could see. At Eames' quizzical look, Arthur pointed upwards. There was no ladder, but the stones were old and pitted, cracked in a way that offered plenty of handholds. "This goes right into Wester's office. You get up first, make him think about the codes. I'll try to crack the safe."

Eames hesitated for a moment. Then he decided that if Arthur _wanted_ his fool head ripped off, this was no problem of Eames'. He knelt over a smooth bit of floor where he could almost see himself reflected and fell into the forgery of Wester's assistant before climbing up the wall, never looking behind to see whether Arthur followed.

Wester was being entertained by a couple of young women wearing dark suits and serious expressions. Eames (who wasn't as good at _being_ his character back then) commanded his attention by sliding at him a brief full of – well, Eames didn't even know. That was part of the point; he just tried to project general paranoia and hope Wester's mind filled it with something appropriate.

The trick to the human mind is to realize that it's not unlike human institutions, and therefore similar to a beehive in that once one passes the perimeter guard, one is assumed to have the proper clearance to be inside, and therefore one is not stung to death. Eames' chat with Wester was downright cordial. Then Wester sent Eames to his office to get him the financial projections for the next quarter, and Eames went with a song in his heart and a spring in his step. Honestly, sometimes these things couldn't work better if one _planned_ them.

He hadn't seen Arthur before nearly getting brained by him. Eames dropped his forgery in shock, and this is what saved him as Arthur jerked his hand (and the heavy paper weight he was holding) away. Eames decided to be gracious and only asked Arthur, "Got it yet?"

"Yes," Arthur said, rolling his eyes, "and that's why I'm awake and running away right now. Oh, _wait_." Then he smiled at Eames, sudden and sweet and so unexpected it left Eames blinking for a second. "Stand watch," Arthur said. "I almost have it."

Eames stood watch while doing his best to look as if he was searching the office for something important. Arthur busied himself with the safe, quiet except for the clicks of the mechanism right up until it went _clonk-_ ** _hiss_** and Arthur choked down something that sounded like " _Yes._ "

That caught Eames' attention, and he found himself looking at Arthur as he unfolded himself to rise. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, a bright burst of pigment that made Eames' fingers itch for some unknowable reason. Arthur's eyes were burning with unholy glee as he handed Eames the scrap of paper they've been hunting for.

"We did it," Arthur said, face transformed with joy into something that Eames would see in his dreams for weeks afterwards.

Eames didn't know what to say, so he busied himself with committing the numbers to mind. Then he folded the papers and felt the cold steel of a gun's muzzle at his temple.

"Say when," Arthur said. And Eames, who never allowed anyone to put a gun to his head even in dreams, closed his eyes and said, "Now."

He expected Arthur to argue for a larger share of the proceeding, but Arthur accepted his money in its blank envelope and vanished away, as all good criminals must. Eames did the same.

After that, Arthur started looking for work as a point man, and Eames started looking for jobs that Arthur was working point for. He'd seen the man in action, after all, and you couldn't argue with success.

~~

The jingle of Arthur's keys snaps Eames out of his reverie.

"I'm going to meet the client," Arthur says, packing his laptop into his briefcase.

Eames puts down the papers he's been perusing. "Should I come along?"

Arthur gives him a small smile. "If you feel like it. Otherwise, go ahead and skip it." It's unspoken but acknowledged, now, that Eames will do the job.

Eames nods. "I'll just get into work, then."

"See that you do." Arthur bends to kiss Eames briefly, then shrugs on his jacket and heads for the door.

"Get some milk while you're out," Eames calls after him. He catches Arthur's nod before the door closes, lock clicking shut.

So. Eames gathers the files, looking at the pile of them, and thinks, _Bayliss_.

Eames can feel a kinship with Bayliss. This is the foundation all of Eames' skills, this kinship. People are all alike, some more so than others, but in the end there is always a common ground. So Eames thumbs through the pieces of paper, reading about corporate mergers and purchases. All for himself, nothing for anyone else, and Eames catches himself thinking, _He must be awfully lonely._

He can't afford to let himself be moved by pity. Not because he might compromise the job, but because if the man does not pity himself, that state of mind would be counterproductive to understanding him, to – in some small measure, for some small time – becoming him. Eames might not have to assume another skin in a dream for this job, but he needs to learn to think like Bayliss.

How does a man like Bayliss think?

 _In practicalities_ , Eames thinks, and jots a small note for himself. _But not entirely so._ Look at his art collection: Some of the pieces are clearly investments, others bought as a financial tactic – _Behold my wealth, ye mighty, and despair._ But these pieces here, which are neither wildly appreciated nor likely to rise in value – what are they for?

Eames reads about Bayliss' art-storage facilities. State-of-the-art security, of course, but Eames takes a more careful look at the details of temperature and humidity control, the special lighting installed. Bayliss visits each facility – he has three – at least once a fortnight.

A seduction, then. But not the type Eames generally uses.

Eames grins, suddenly, pulling out a pencil and paper, scrawling frantically. A job within a job, by God. Those corporate types always dream of something else, something more, and who but Eames could supply that? Let him take Bayliss on an adventure. Give the bastard his full money's worth.

He can't wear his own face for this, of course, but fortunately he has another one in stock that he thinks will fit beautifully.

By the time Arthur returns home, the living room is covered in sheets of paper and Eames has commandeered Arthur's whiteboard for some of the less well-defined bits. Arthur, bless him, sorts through the papers and comes to join Eames at the board, stealing his dry-erase marker and circling the bits he thinks need more work.

They refine the plan until two in the morning, until Eames' eyesight is too blurry to draw properly. Once in bed, Arthur presses against him, and Eames would love to take care of him, really he would, but as previously mentioned he is literally so tired he can't see straight.

He pushes Arthur away gently. Arthur takes it well enough, slipping away into the bathroom. Eames is asleep before he returns, but Arthur is sprawled all over him when he wakes up the next morning, so Eames supposes his darling wasn't too dreadfully offended.

~~

"So," Eames says once they're both up and dressed. "Do we need anyone else to pull this off?"

Arthur frowns. "I could do an okay art museum," he says.

Alas, that will not do. "We need better than okay," Eames decides. "Call Ariadne, her spring break should start fairly soon."

"What piece are we going for?" Arthur asks. Eames stares at the ceiling, deep in thought. What Eames would call the private portion of Bayliss' collection follows no obvious pattern, but it does have several non-obvious ones.

"Maybe we should let him choose in the dream," Arthur suggest.

Eames scoffs. "He's a collector, Arthur. He's likely to know where the pieces he wants are stored, and we won't be able to build an entire museum on the fly." Arthur makes a face at this, because of course he knows that. Eames sticks his tongue at Arthur, unrepentant.

"A preliminary extraction?" Arthur says. "Get his favorite piece, work from there," but Eames is already shaking his head.

"Leave it to me," he says. "I might need a few days, but I'll figure it out. Trust me."

As it turns out, Eames only needs a few hours before the idea strikes. He's half-idling, browsing the 'Art' category of StumbleUpon more for entertainment's sake than anything else. What occurs to him isn't even related – he's looking at an online gallery of Bosch when he makes the connection.

"Arthur!" he says, louder than he probably needs to, considering Arthur is only two meters or so away. "Oi, Arthur, come take a look at this."

Arthur comes willingly enough, sitting on the couch next to Eames. "Take a look at what?"

Eames gestures at the images on his screen. "These three," he says, selecting the thumbnail images, "are all from Bayliss' collection." There's a Hepworth there, and a piece by Caro, and something by a no-name artist that Eames finds rather aesthetically pleasing.

Arthur surveys the images with a critical eye. "All right, and?

"Now look at this." Eames scrolls up the image he found just now, _Reclining Figure_ by Henry Moore. There's an elegance to the image, a sensuality at odds with the form's overall bulk.

"Hmm." Arthur looks it over. "All four of them are... huge, ugly, and don't actually look like anything?"

Eames sighs melodramatically. "I despair of your artistic sense."

"Well, despair more quietly," Arthur says. He tilts his head so it's touching Eames' shoulder. "Do you think that's the one?"

"Yes," Eames says. Reasonably sure, anyway, but there's no need to say that. Arthur's well aware that Eames' profession is far from an exact science.

"All right," Arthur says, and gets back to his own work station. "I'll add it to the file I'm sending Ariadne."

"Excellent," Eames says, already distracted. "I'll just get on with planning the heist in the dream, then?"

"More your area than mine," Arthur says with a shrug. He keeps talking, probably to himself. Arthur tends to mutter to himself as he works, sometimes. Eames doesn't pay him any mind, concentrating instead on Googling museums, opening a .doc file to fill with additional information for Ariadne.

~~

Eames wonders about dreams, sometimes. He has a pet theory that people who engage in the dreamsharing business don't stop dreaming so much as completely stop remembering their ordinary dreams, which are pale, fractured things compared to what one can create with a PASIV. Certainly Eames has seen dreamers – Arthur, to name one, but others as well – twitch in what appeared to be at least similar to REM sleep.

Arthur goes restless in his sleep, thrashing and kicking with some regularity. He can be soothed, though, by the careful application of a hand on his forehead, a few nonsense words whispered in his ear in the right tone.

He's peaceful enough now. It's Eames who can't sleep, kept up by too many days' fucked-up sleep schedule. Combined with the excitement of a new job and a general unsettled feeling that Eames can't seem to shake off, it's no wonder he's not asleep yet.

Briefly, Eames flirts with the thought of getting up to continue working, but he's too tired to be actually productive, and the bed is too pleasant to leave just now, occupied as it is by a warm and lightly snoring Arthur.

To occupy himself, he runs the various museums he'd researched through his mind, visualizing floor plans and trying to transform the scattered still images into something like a map in his mind. Eames has a nearly eidetic memory and an extremely vivid imagination. He ends up reassembling the pictures until he can see himself walking through corridors in a place he's never been, pausing to rearrange the locations of various pieces.

The small details create themselves for him in a way that utterly ignores the known facts of physical reality. He hears his own footsteps heavy on a wooden floor, echoing in the high enclosed space. Stone walls, by the sound of it. Eames is pretty sure the actual museum is nothing like this, but give him the word _museum_ , and this is what he comes up with. There's a reason Eames was never an architect.

After a while the images start fading into a blur of familiarity. One of Matisse' Blue Nudes hangs on the wall to his right. It's a reproduction, not even the correct size. It looks like the one that hung in his mother's work room. On the wall ahead, where the corridor curves left, there's a drawing Eames can't put a name to. It's a painting of a barbed-wire fence at sunset, stark and somehow hopeful at the same time.

Past the corner, the walls are bare. Eames goes forward and the corridor narrows, a trick of perspective turned into a physical reality. When he reaches the end of it, there's one image in front of him. He stands to face it.

He can't make her face come out right. He knows that. His memory is a skill, and while it's supported by some innate talent, it's not much by itself. He wasn't trained yet when he first saw this picture, and he never saw it in person again afterwards.

They say you never forget your first love. Eames can only wish that was so. He looks at her, reconstructed as she is from the dregs of his memory. The flutter of her shawl remains, and the riot of colorful black in the middle where the cloth parts to reveal something unknown, but Eames can never get her smile to look like it should.

Her name is Emiliana, the lady in the picture, but her smile belongs to Eames' mother, and there's something strange about her eyes. He comes closer, and Emiliana reaches out to him.

Eames stops. "Hello," he says, softly. He's not sure his mouth is even moving, but her eyes flicker like she heard him.

Her hands go back to their previous position, twisting in the folds of fabric as if desperately trying to keep everything in place. She doesn't say anything. Of course she doesn't; she's a painting, and it's only occurring to Eames now that it's a little odd for her to move around like that.

Then she blinks, and her voice is like the turning of pages, old paper shuffling against itself. "Being here won't help you," she says. Eames is a fan of the direct attitude.

"It's not meant to," Eames says. "This is just a practice run."

"Everything is practice, to you," she says, and the scolding tone is a familiar one. "What are you trying to do?"

Eames half-shrugs, a minute shift of one shoulder. "Finish the job," he says. "Get the money."

She shakes her head slowly. The curves of her outfit cling to her neck as if something unpleasant might pour out if she turned too fast. "You never came for me. I thought you would."

"You're a painting." He says it gently, just to remind her. No need to be hurtful about it. "You don't think."

"But you loved me." It's not a question. The only odd thing about it is that it's in past tense.

"Yeah," Eames says. "Still do. Just have no place to put you." He grins at her, and maybe it's ridiculous to try and charm the memory of a painting, but he sees no reason not to make the attempt. "I wouldn't tear you away from the lifestyle to which you're accustomed, love. I need you kept where you're safe and beautiful."

Her laughter is kindling-dry. "Isn't that what love is?"

"Is it?" Eames says, then blinks and sees only darkness.

Arthur snuffles beside him, turning over to look at Eames with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Hush, darling," Eames says, stroking a hand over Arthur's hair. "Go back to sleep."

"Heard you talking," Arthur says. His voice is slurred, words coming soft and misshapen out of his mouth.

"Nothing of importance." But Arthur ignores this, as he often does, continuing to blink at Eames until he has no choice but to sigh and pull Arthur half on top of him. Arthur goes easily, loose-limbed, a pleasant heaviness to weight Eames down against his wild thoughts.

"You could sleep like this," Eames says, "couldn't you?" The question is largely rhetorical. There are very few situations in which Arthur can't sleep. Arthur nods into Eames' collarbone, too tired to lift his head.

He rubs his fingers up and down Arthur's spine, the soft skin against his calming and clearing his mind. Eames never liked to sleep alone.

There's something stirring against Eames' thigh. Eames might as well transfer his restless stroking to an area where it would be more appreciated. He turns Arthur to lie on his back and holds his cock in a loose fist, setting a slow rhythm while his mind wanders. Arthur turns his head to touch his lips to Eames' shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there.

Today and yesterday and most days, Arthur arches into Eames' hand whenever Eames offers it. Eames used to think that anyone that wasn't like him would always arch into a pressing hand, that to other people there was no such thing as an unwelcome touch. He learned the error of this soon enough, but some lingering traces of that belief remained.

This isn't true for Arthur. Eames has known that for as long as he has known the man. Arthur likes to keep himself tucked away, his desires sorted and stored out of sight. He reaches for Eames not out of want, but out of dissatisfied need. Eames' hand tightens at the thought, unconsciously, and Arthur moans and bucks into his hold.

He turns to look at Arthur, noting the spread of his thighs, the way his mouth hangs half-open. He kisses into it, backing away when it turns demanding, Arthur sucking on his tongue with a hunger that Eames never understood. He speeds up his hand, and Arthur whines in the back of his throat, twisting under Eames as he comes.

Arthur falls asleep as Eames cleans him up, his hand resting on Eames' thigh. Eames gathers him up and tucks his face into the warm skin between Arthur's shoulder blades.

Maybe Eames should just try to offer more often, but he's been down that road too many times. He doesn't ever want to resent the slide of Arthur's hands on his skin, Arthur's mouth against his. The way things are now is too good to give up.

Some deity or other willing, perhaps it isn't too good to last.

~~

Once they have the idea set in place, everything else goes butter-smooth. Bayliss has a daily train commute that would be easy enough to hijack, and Ariadne promises to fly in as soon as the semester is over. Eames immerses himself fully in what he privately thinks of as the fun part of the job.

He makes dozens of museum sketches, for himself more than for Ariadne, who is perfectly capable of researching this by herself. But Eames is enjoying himself, and it will save time later on.

"Shouldn't you be making a forge for this?" Arthur asks him as he doodles some flying buttresses. Arthur, endearingly, seems to worry Eames will get bored unless he's kept busy; Eames would be happy to disabuse him of the notion, but it seems passion for useful work is set into Arthur at the cellular level.

"Have one already," Eames says, scribbling half-arsed lines in place of proper shading. "I'm going to use Alex." They're lazing about in bed, Eames sitting up with his sketch pad, Arthur lying on his stomach, leaning up on his elbows and typing on his laptop as he speaks.

"The one you based on me," Arthur says. Eames raises his eyes from the paper, cautiously, prepared to defend his choices in case of an argument, but Arthur only looks amused. "You thought I'd make a good art thief?"

"Given me to pick your targets for you," Eames says, honestly, "I think you'd make an excellent art thief. It's a shame you never came into the profession, really."

Arthur considers this. "I don't think so," he says at length. "It looks like the kind of job you should get into because of—" he makes a wobbly gesture, "some kind of romantic tendency, I don't know."

"Are you calling yourself unromantic?" Eames says, putting the sketch pad aside and lying down to sling an arm around Arthur's shoulders.

Arthur leans into him. "Why, do you want to do it for me?"

Eames laughs and kisses Arthur's jaw. "I don't think you're unromantic, darling," he says. "Just wonderfully pragmatic in everything but your self-nurturing habits."

Arthur snorts. "What the hell is that, some synonym for masturbation?"

Eames grimaces and smacks him lightly. "So crass," he says, licking Arthur's ear. Arthur squirms away from this, but settles when Eames tightens his hold on him. "Such a dirty mind," Eames says into the ear he licked.

Arthur's squirming grows more pronounced at that. "Eames," he says warningly.

Eames lets go at once. "What?" he says, looking at Arthur. He wasn't holding too forcefully, was he? He left bruises once or twice, grasping too hard, which made Arthur snap at him and then cringe in ill-advised attempts to take it back. It was unpleasant all around.

The tips of Arthur's ears turn pink. "Sorry," he says. "Just – if you do that, it'll get me going."

Eames blinks. "Do what?" But even as he says it, he sees what Arthur's talking about. Licking and talking about masturbation, right, perhaps not the best combination under the circumstances. "Is that a bad thing?" he says, in an attempt to recover their easy mood from earlier.

Arthur rolls his eyes at him, but he's smiling again, so Eames counts this as a success. "Well, it's not _bad_. I just don't feel like getting up right now to. Um. Make it go away." His blush grows more pronounced. Eames watches as it slides to color Arthur's cheeks, transfixed, until Arthur pushes at him irritably. "Stop looking at me like that."

"But you're so adorable, trying to pretend you don't have a filthy mind," Eames says, momentarily too distracted by the blush to notice what Arthur actually said. Then he doubles back to parse the entire sentence. "Arthur, you do realize that you have every right in the world to wank in your own bed, yes?"

The flush is getting worse. It's really rather fetching. "Yeah, but." Arthur coughs. "I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, okay?"

Eames raises his eyebrows at this, incredulous. "I do believe," he says in the driest voice he can muster, "that I've already seen all your naughty bits. I'm not particularly easy to scandalize, Arthur, you might have noticed that about me."

Arthur turns his head, looking at Eames out of the corner of his eye. "So, what, if I went at it right here and now, you wouldn't mind?"

"Not in the least," Eames says. Then he frowns and clarifies, "I may prefer that you don't touch me while you do." Sometimes he likes it, Arthur's body striving against his. At other occasions, it feels like a demand he can't satisfy. At times, Eames feels he doesn't entirely know his own body's rules.

"Yeah, obviously," Arthur says. "What about looking? Can I look at you while I – " He swallows and says, "while I jerk off?"

"Oh, no, you mustn't look at me," Eames says, rolling his eyes. "I'll just slip into my modesty cover, won't I? Of course you can look, don't be bloody ridiculous."

Arthur's eyes narrow. "Really," he says. "I just want to point out that _you_ never jerk off when I'm in the room."

Well. No, Eames doesn't, and doesn't intend to start. The idea of being watched like that feels odd, invasive and unpleasant. "No, I don't," he says shortly. Then he glances at Arthur. "But if I'm here, yes, you may look at me." It sounds so preposterous, saying it like that, but he supposes Arthur has a point asking.

"Sure?" Arthur says, and now he's just being a prick. "I mean, I'll be having sexy thoughts about you."

"However shall I cope," Eames says, seriously considering cuffing Arthur on the back of his silly head. Instead he sets his teeth on the back of Arthur's neck, careful, only the barest light pressure. Eames likes the way skin feels between his teeth, pliant and strong, but he must be cautious with Arthur, who doesn't enjoy that sort of thing.

Arthur pushes up, though, so Eames kisses him there, licks carefully at the place where Arthur's hairline begins. It makes Arthur shiver, and Eames feels playful so he keeps going, sucking kisses on the top of Arthur's spine and tugging Arthur's hair gently with his teeth.

He listens for the change in Arthur's breathing, and there's no missing it when Arthur really gets going, body driving into the mattress. Eames pulls away, watching Arthur grunt and twist. He's mostly hidden by the covers, but any chastity he gains from that is betrayed most thoroughly by the unmistakable way his body moves, the flush creeping across his face darkening to bright red.

Eames returns to his sketches, darting glances at Arthur as he works. It's interesting, in its way, the way want shows clear in Arthur's every movement. Eames is torn between wanting to commit it to memory, to analyze and perhaps use, and respecting this as something private and intimate. Perhaps he should ask Arthur about it later.

When Arthur's finished, gasping into the pillow, Eames strokes his back absently, one eye still on the paper in front of him. "All right?" Eames asks.

"Fine." Arthur moves until his head is pillowed on Eames' thigh, and closes his eyes. Eames traces a finger over the outer edge of Arthur's ear.

"Shouldn't you be getting cleaned up?" Eames says.

"In a minute." Although if the limpness in Arthur's muscles is anything to judge by, half an hour – at least – seems like a more likely guess. As if to further confirm this, Arthur turns his face into Eames' thigh, wriggles and settles where he is. Eames puts a hand on the back of Arthur's neck to provide better support.

After a few minutes, a thought occurs to him. He shakes Arthur until he grumbles something and swats at Eames' hand.

"Arthur," Eames says, exasperated.

"'m up," Arthur says, in a displeased tone, pushing himself to sit upright, then draping himself along the length of Eames' back. "What is it, already."

"We're going to need an extractor." At Arthur's grimace, Eames adds, "We do and you know it. I'll be too busy pretending to be a world-renown art thief— "

"What do you mean, pretending?"

Eames swats Arthur's shoulder. "Hush, you. And you will be troubleshooting, if I know you."

"Shooting at trouble, more likely." Arthur lies back, staring at the ceiling. Eames turns to look at him, sprawled across the bed, and on impulse comes to lie beside him, resting his head on Arthur's stomach.

"And Ariadne doesn't have any relevant experience," Eames says to Arthur's lower body.

Above him, Arthur snorts. "She should consider changing lines of work. I know she did a hell of a job on Dom."

"Dom," Eames says, slowly, and feels Arthur's sharply drawn breath in the sudden tautness of the muscle under his cheek. "No, Arthur, hear me out. Cobb will be excellent for this."

"I don't want to bring him into this." Arthur's voice is a warning, but his body is already loosening up again.

Eames can tell he's close to capitulating, so he presses. "Best tool for the best job," he says, because that's basically Arthur's life philosophy. And for the winning strike, he adds, "Think of the poor man, nothing to occupy his time but dull housework. He's likely bored out of his skull."

There's a brief pause, then Arthur says, "You're manipulating me, aren't you?"

Eames shifts up, to see Arthur's face, close beside his and very nice to kiss. "I don't know," he says, running his lips across Arthur's cheek. "Is it working?"

Arthur closes his eyes. "Let me sleep on it," he says. "Ask me again later."

"As you wish," Eames says, and means it in the literary sense.

~~

Ariadne calls the next day. Eames picks up and puts her on speakerphone, since he needs his hands to make dinner. "Everyone can hear you," he tells her. "Nothing filthy unless you like an audience."

Her laughter is tinny on the other side of the line. "Yeah, but then everyone would know about our forbidden love."

"That would be tragic," Eames agrees, chopping onions. "How are you?"

"Fine," she says. "Hey, are we going to need a chemist?"

Eames turns to look at Arthur, mouthing _Do we?_ Arthur frowns momentarily, then shakes his head. "Apparently not," Eames says. "Why? Got someone lined up?"

Her pause is tellingly long. "No reason," she says.

Eames feels a smile widening across his face. Aw, is their little architect all grown up and assembling her own team? "You can tell me," he says in his best coaxing voice. "I won't speak of it to a soul, I swear."

"You mean, apart from whoever it is you've got listening with you," Ariadne says, and Arthur raises his eyebrows and mouths _Busted_ at Eames.

"Oh, it's just Arthur and me here," Eames says dismissively. "And you know he's the very soul of discretion."

Surprisingly, that gets her to talk. "Well. There's someone." Eames waits patiently, dumping the onions into the pan, stirring absentmindedly. "She's very talented," Ariadne says. "We met when I was working the Sirkin job, you remember I told you about that?"

"Sirkin job," Eames says, thinking. "Semi-therapeutic, yeah?"

"God, it was awful." Eames imagines Ariadne is shivering in mock-horror on the other end. "The mark had fifteen different drug sensitivities and what's professionally known as being a complete nutcase."

"That's not professional," Arthur yells from his side of the dining room. Eames feels his smile widening, helpless.

"Well, that's what the doctor called it," Ariadne says. "Also, hi, Arthur!"

Arthur waves, sardonically. Eames says, "He says hi back. So. Chemist?"

"Yeah. Sandra. She's amazing." If Eames isn't mistaken – and it's not often he is – that's more than professional regard coloring Ariadne's voice.

Eames mulls it over as he seasons the tomato paste. "We're going to need someone to stay up while we're under," he says at last. "But I don't think we want a full chemist for the job. If she's not busy and doesn't mind, we'd be happy to have her."

"Cool," Ariadne says. "I'll ask her." She hangs up without saying goodbye. Ariadne doesn't believe in useless pleasantries. Eames likes that about her.

"What's with bringing all those people in?" Arthur says.

"Maybe I'm feeling lonely." Eames shifts closer to the stove. "Oi, make yourself useful and come peel some carrots for me."

Arthur rises, obligingly. "Come on." He pushes his sleeves back, ignores the proffered vegetable peeler in favor of a plain knife. "Do you really think we need that much manpower?"

"Can't hurt," Eames says. Arthur gives him a sharp look. Eames isn't one to plan too carefully; normally contingency plans are Arthur's domain. But there's something about this job that leaves him restless, and what's worse, Arthur's playing along, which means there's something rousing his suspicions as well.

~~

Cobb's willingness to come back from retirement is almost alarming.

"Diapers," Arthur says, succinctly, when he snaps his cell phone shut.

"Disaffection is a very common affliction in housewives," Eames says. Arthur beans him with a throw-pillow. Eames should really get rid of those things; given Arthur's superb aim, it's ill-advised to supply him with ammunition.

"Anyone else you'd like to add to this job?" Arthur says. "We could call Yusuf. Or hey, maybe Saito wants to get back into the extraction business."

Eames throws the pillow back at Arthur. It falls harmlessly to the floor at his feet. Eames mentally shrugs this off. He always did his best work at close range. "If you want someone off the job," Eames says, "you have only to say so."

Arthur stays silent for a suspiciously long time.

"You're having doubts about this job," Eames says, and it isn't a question. It's time they talked about it, that's what it is.

Arthur lets out a breath. "I don't have anything concrete." Eames makes an irritable _yes, yes_ gesture. "But, okay. Look at this." Arthur pulls out Bayliss' file from where he keeps it beside the sofa. Arthur doesn't even need to look at the carefully placed bookmarks, just opens the file directly at the page he wants. "This is what I've got on Bayliss' militarization."

Eames takes the file and looks. "Orensen," Eames says. "That's not bad." Orensen does good work. Started out as an architect. Funny how some of the best names in the business come from that field. Funny how few of them stay in it.

"But not very good, either," Arthur says. "Someone with that kind of financial standing, I would have expected Pierre. Or Althea."

Eames shudders dramatically. "Speak not to me of Althea, darling. I still get nightmares."

Arthur snorts. He hadn't been on that job, the bastard, so he can enjoy making light of Eames' pain. "She's actually very nice to work with. You'd like her." He makes a show of looking Eames up and down. "What am I even talking about, you like everyone."

"Not everyone," Eames says, slightly offended.

"Yeah, I guess not," Arthur says, and his smile turns unaccountably soft. He gets up from the couch and sits next to Eames, resting his head on Eames' shoulder. "I think I'll make coffee," he says. "You want tea?"

"Mm," Eames says. "A cup of tea, a bite of biscuit, and thou. What more can a man wish for?" Arthur makes a face. No taste for a little literary allusion, that man. As an afterthought Eames adds, "Shame we're out of biscuits."

"A good book," Arthur says firmly. Then he seems thoughtful. "We're out of cookies? Huh."

"This happens," Eames says, "when one eats them regularly, yes." Though Arthur is almost depressingly disinterested in sweets. It's enough to make Eames wonder if he ought to start watching his own figure.

Arthur gets up, presumably in search of the previously mentioned good book. Eames gets back to killing zombies on his iPhone. After dying a particularly gruesome death, he sets the wretched thing down and goes back to his sketches.

He's fleshing Alex out more thoroughly now. She needs to be her own person, complete with parents (divorced and estranged from her), education (BA in psychology, couldn't get into a Master's program which was her first step on the road to a criminal life) and romantic preferences (men, strictly for Eames' convenience – it would make his interaction with the mark easier).

He comes out of it when there's something set by him – a cup of tea, strong and milky, and a plate with three small chocolate-chip cookies. He raises his eyes to meet Arthur's, who is sitting down with a cup of coffee.

"I was positive we ran out," Eames says.

"We did. I got more." Arthur spreads his newspaper – it's today's, Eames supposes he must have picked it up just now. "We were out of milk, too," he says. "It's not like I went out just to get you your sugar fix."

Because Eames is rather certain that this is, in fact, exactly what Arthur did, he does his best to suppress his smile as he munches on a biccie.

~~

Ariadne and Sandra arrive the next week. The day before they do, Arthur cleans up the guest room with a zealousness that seems to Eames entirely unwarranted.

"It's not that I think they'll care about the dust on the doorframe," Arthur says to Eames' inquiry on that subject. "But I'll know it's there, and it's easier to clean it now than try not to think about it later."

"You could at least let me help," Eames says. Arthur doesn't deign to answer, just kneels to rummage under the bed.

"Anyway, if I don't clean it like this," Arthur says, "I'll end up worrying I left something in there that they shouldn't know about."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "And here I thought you have no regard for your own privacy."

"Not from you, no." Arthur rises to his feet and dusts his knees, although if there's even a single mote left in this room by now Eames would be frankly impressed by it. "You already know everything you'd need to get me killed."

Eames wishes Arthur looked... if not as if he was kidding, at least slightly less matter-of-fact. "That's... A rather odd way to look at it."

Arthur shrugs. "I just never cared about it either way," he says. "And then I had to. It's easier not to have to care, you know?"

That turn of phrase should not make the breath catch in Eames' throat the way it does. "Oh, I know," he says. It makes Arthur look at him sharply, so he forces a grin. "Does that mean I can look at your laptop without adult supervision?"

"Never," Arthur says, instantly. "My computer is _mine_."

Eames sighs. "I could only wish you spoke of me in the same tone."

Arthur blinks and moves closer. "Should I?" he says, crowding Eames against the wall.

Should he? Not if he doesn't mean it, but Eames knows well that Arthur is a dreadful liar, particularly to those he cares about. As Arthur presses closer, Eames says, "If you can."

"Mine," Arthur says, as if tasting the word. Eames can feel Arthur's breath on his face. Arthur's hand creeps to grasp the back of Eames' neck, and Eames winds his arms about Arthur's shoulders. "Mine," Arthur says again, into Eames' mouth, and then he's kissing him.

It's a demanding kiss, but the demand is not a sexual one, as far as Eames can tell. It's forceful and unrelenting, very Arthurish in essence, and Eames takes it all in, greedy.

Then Arthur pulls back with a glazed look in his eyes. Eames can feel that Arthur's hard and, furthermore, Eames doesn't care. He pulls Arthur back in, makes Arthur kiss him properly until he's gasping into Eames' mouth and moving in a very definite sort of way.

"If I'm yours," Eames says, when Arthur pulls back a little, "then you're mine, too. Even trade."

Arthur nods, apparently too stunned to speak.

"And what's mine," Eames says, "I make sure to keep in the best condition. Take your trousers off, Arthur." He's not even sure what he's saying or why he's saying it, making it all up as he goes. All he knows is that he feels something alive between them, and through it he feels Arthur's want, and he can't let Arthur be frustrated, he just can't. It pains him to even try.

"Take yourself in hand," Eames says, in a low voice, the one he uses – in various forms – for his seductions. He's almost surprised that Arthur obeys, that Arthur doesn't get annoyed and tell him to knock it off. But Arthur doesn't look like he entirely understands what's going on, and his hand all but leaps to his cock. "Touch yourself," Eames says. Arthur bites down his lower lip, closes his eyes, and obeys.

He moves in a fast, furious rhythm. Whenever he slows down Eames snaps, "Faster," until Arthur spurts all over his hand and collapses to the floor.

Eames sits down next to him. He wants to touch, now, needs it, and thinks Arthur might need it, too. He kisses Arthur's shoulders, the tops of his arms, his collarbone, whatever's within reach.

"What the hell was that," Arthur says, after a few minutes. "I. Did you just go _professional_ on me?"

Eames is silent for a moment. Then he says, "And if I did?"

Arthur makes a small anguished sound that makes Eames feel like he's being torn to pieces, and isn't that just the quintessential rhythm they have? Arthur asks, Eames refuses, Arthur retracts his request and Eames wants to beg him, _No, I'll do whatever you want, just stop_ looking _at me like that._

"I want to be good to you," Arthur says. "Every time – you do things for me, all the fucking time, you think I don't notice? I can't just keep taking like this, I need to give something back, but I don't know what the fuck you want."

Eames isn't sure how to answer this. Just as well, since Arthur seems to have more to say.

"And sometimes I think, maybe you just want me to leave you alone," Arthur says, and that – _no_. Eames holds on to him, hard, and he doesn't give a damn if Arthur gets bruised this time. Arthur laughs, weakly. "Yeah, but that's a bad idea. I got that already, thanks."

"You don't need to do anything for me," Eames says. "That's not what this is about."

Arthur is quiet for a long time. "What did you do, when you dated other people?"

Eames takes a while to reply to this. He isn't embarrassed about it, exactly, but it could come out... odd, he supposes. "I never told most of them," he says. "It was easier to just pretend that I was interested."

Arthur huffs out a breath. "And how did that work out?"

"Badly," Eames says shortly. He has no interest in explaining his – admittedly flawed – romantic decisions to Arthur right now.

Arthur isn't pushing, though, just looking at Eames curiously. "Am I really the first one you told?"

Eames snorts. "The first one who didn't end the relationship shortly thereafter."

"I'm sorry." Arthur's voice is quiet, but not the small cringing tone that makes Eames want to rip something apart. "That it was like that for you, I mean. I'm trying to be better."

At this, Eames can't hold back surprised laughter. "Darling, you're amazing. This may well be the best relationship I've had in my entire life." He almost regrets saying that, except that Arthur's expression is so wonderfully open.

"For me, too," Arthur says, so earnest that Eames wants to kiss him for a year. "But do you think I can't tell you're worried?"

"Well, why do you think I am worried?" Eames demands. "If this goes shit-up, where the hell does it leave me? Bare, bereft and wailing in anguish, that's where."

Arthur laughs, really laughs, head dropping back against the wall and eyes screwed shut. "I like how good you are at keeping shit in proportion," he says when he calms down a little.

"This is in proportion," Eames says, severely. "I'm utterly bloody serious, here. Every word is God's honest truth."

"Okay, you're starting to scare me now," Arthur says, but it's a bloody lie because he flops right against Eames. Eames rubs his back to further convince him of the wisdom of this action.

After a small while, Arthur raises his head. When he speaks, it's in the same quiet, steady voice. "What you did, just now. Could you do that again?"

"If you asked when I felt like it," Eames says, honestly.

"And if I asked and you didn't feel like it," Arthur says, and it should annoy Eames, but he's always liked Arthur's methodical approach. "Would that be okay?"

"If you asked and I said no," Eames replies, "what would you do?"

Arthur shrugs. "Same thing I do now. Turn over and go to sleep, or whatever."

"Same logic applies. Ask me, I'll say yes or no, and we'll take it from there." He kisses Arthur's ear. "You mustn't be so afraid to ask me for things. What's the worst I could do?"

Arthur's expression darkens a little. "No comment." He gets up, but he offers Eames a hand up and kisses him afterwards, so Eames supposes that all in all the conversation was a success, as such things go.

~~

Ariadne spends her first ten minutes in their house staring at the ceiling, transfixed. Eames is torn between wanting to ask what's so interesting and fearing he'll get an answer. Ariadne is one of those people convinced that their main area of interest is universally fascinating, and those who are trying to politely edge away from a lengthy conversation on the topic are doing so out of misguided shyness.

"What are you looking at?" Arthur asks, and Eames prepares to make a hasty retreat when Sandra firmly claps a hand across Ariadne's mouth.

"Something structurally fascinating about the ceiling, probably," she says, dust-dry and fond. "You can tell us about it after we've put our bags down, Ari."

Ariadne shakes her off. "Stop oppressing me," she says, but she's smiling. "My generation will not be stifled."

"Your generation will not shut up," Sandra says, "and for some reason they seem to think this is a positive quality. Kids these days," she says to Arthur with a smile.

"Hey," Arthur says, feelingly. He's a little more sensitive than he should be about turning thirty soon; Eames is very much looking forward to mocking him when he actually passes that line.

Sandra is in her early forties, matter-of-fact, completely at ease around Ariadne and slightly wary of Arthur. She greets Eames with impersonal friendliness and a firm handshake. Her hands are rough and strong, fingers stained a permanent yellow.

"Pleased to meet you," Eames says. "If I may show you to your room?"

"Are we sharing?" Sandra says, at the same moment that Ariadne asks, "Is Cobb sleeping here, too?"

"Cobb is in a hotel." Eames says. "Last I heard, he was having paroxysms of joy over the prospect of room service." Arthur scowls, but doesn't refute this, which is just as well since everything Eames just said is completely factually accurate.

"But you're sleeping here, right, Eames?" Ariadne looks at him with expectant eyes, and Eames is caught not knowing what to answer. They should probably have talked about this – are they keeping this quiet? Should Eames deflect the question? No, better to—

That line of thought is brought to a halt by Arthur's snort. "Yeah, only for two months now." He looks at Ariadne, then at Eames, eyebrows rising. "I thought you told her. What the hell were all those phone conversations about?"

"Work," Eames says, in a wounded tone, just as Ariadne completely undoes his efforts by cheerfully saying, "Gossip Girl."

Arthur blinks. "Seriously?"

"It's addictive," Eames says defensively. "They're all utter arseholes in magnificent clothes." He only just restrains himself for adding, _Not unlike certain people I know and love_.

" _So_ not the subject," Ariadne says, "wait, hello, you guys are together? Since when?"

"Two months, and minus five points for listening comprehension," Sandra says. Eames likes her, he does, but he'd feel better about this conversation without a complete stranger running commentary.

"Your room," he says again, a little more pointedly. "I'm sure you're tired."

"I'm not – mmf."

"Yes, thank you," Sandra says, hand firmly pressed to Ariadne’s mouth again. She uses the leverage to push Ariadne after Eames. Much as he appreciates the sentiment, Eames rather wishes she'd stop doing that. It seems a bit invasive, even if Ariadne doesn't appear to mind.

Once they're safely led away to unpack, Eames rejoins Arthur in the kitchen.

"You haven't been talking about us." Arthur opens the fridge door, stares inside, and closes it again.

Eames shrugs uncomfortably. "Didn't know what to say."

Arthur turns to look at him. The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "For the record, _I have a boyfriend now_ generally works."

"Didn't occur to me to tell." Idle chit-chat aside, he and Ariadne really have been talking about work, for the most part. Granted, she told him quite a bit about her life – her studies, her friends, her long-distance fights with her parents. "And nobody asked." Although, come to think about it— "Have you told Cobb?"

"No," Arthur says, the tips of his ears turning a delicate pink.

"And why not?" Eames leans back against the counter. "Embarrassed, are you?"

Arthur spreads his hands. "Why would he care?"

Oh, _really_. "I believe we are talking about Dom Cobb, yes?" Eames says. "The man who called you when his daughter had the sniffles?"

"Look, he never had to deal with them when they were sick," Arthur says, suddenly defensive to an endearing degree.

"Whereas you are a font of parental experience," Eames says.

"Shut up. He just needed to talk to someone who wasn't panicking, okay?" Arthur's glare is short-lived and quickly replaced by a faint smile. "Though, honestly, you'd think he'd never had a kid throw up on him."

"I never did," Eames says baldly, "and frankly I hope that continues to be the case."

Arthur shrugs. "Kids are okay, so long as their parents are there to take them away at the end of the day." He makes a rude noise. "And yeah, when they don't throw up on your shoes, the little buggers."

Eames leans to kiss Arthur's jaw. "That's my slang you're stealing," he says into Arthur's warm skin. "Is that any way to—"

"Ahem," somebody says from the doorway.

Eames turns to see Dom Cobb in all his fatherly glory standing there and squinting at them. Dom looks from Arthur to Eames and back again; granted, his gaze doesn't have to travel very long at all.

"Is this a new development?" Cobb says. He sounds tired, enough that Eames would think he was jet-lagged if he didn't know better.

"Somewhat," Arthur says.

Cobb draws a breath as if to say something, then deflates. "You're not going to listen to anything I have to say on the subject, are you?"

"Depends. Are you going to say anything worth listening to?" Eames has almost forgotten how Arthur can get when he's like this, all sharp cutting edges, streamlined.

"Why do I even bother," Cobb says, looking upwards. "Look, if you're done making out in the kitchen, can we start the actual work?"

"Sure," Arthur says, easily, "the moment you stop talking about my personal life and start talking about the job."

Cobb squints harder. Arthur shoulders past him to the living room. Eames follows the two of them. Sandra and Ariadne have already claimed the love seat. Arthur sits on the edge of a misplaced kitchen chair. Eames perches on the couch's armrest, and Cobb sits in the middle of it.

Arthur's meticulously organized files are spread on the table, with a small pile of folders, each of which has a name printed on the cover. Eames takes the one meant for him, and passes Cobb his.

Once everyone has their own copies, Arthur starts. "The client is Alfred Bayliss." He goes on about the details – all things Eames knows already, information that Eames spent the last weeks immersed in. He listens with half an ear, turning the rest of his attention to the people in the room.

Cobb doesn't just look tired, he looks old. Quite possibly Eames was more right than he thought about him missing the work. Not everyone is cut to be a stay-at-home parent. The man might have missed his children, but that doesn't mean he knows what to actually do with them. Cobb watches Arthur with sharp eyes, but doesn't interrupt. Eames appreciates that. Cobb has the sense – and the professionalism, thank God for that – to know that this is Arthur's show.

Ariadne is frowning thoughtfully as she listens to Arthur. Eames left the notes he made for her on her bed, and she's holding them in her other hand, leafing through them during the parts of Arthur's explanation that are less relevant to her. Good girl.

Sandra is polite enough to try to conceal her boredom, but it's pretty obvious that she wants to whip out her cell phone or something similarly rude. Eames can't really blame her; her part in this job is that of a glorified babysitter. Eames has seen her resume, and this is really below her. He'd say it's a mystery why she came at all, but she's sitting just a little too close to Ariadne, and there's no mystery there whatsoever.

And Arthur. Always Eames' favorite subject, when it comes to people-watching. Always more to learn, looking at him. Eames is still delighted with this, every time anew – the elegant lines of Arthur's fingers, the subtle rippling of his expressions, the utter stillness that Eames knows can flow into deadly action with no transition at all. Arthur's voice. The steady look in his eyes.

Arthur is a work of art in and of himself. Eames never stood a chance.

When Arthur reaches the end of his briefing, Cobb leans forward. "What about his militarization?"

Arthur hesitates, obviously torn between restating the obvious and admitting possible doubts. In the end, he opts for neither. "I'd like your opinion on that," he says.

"There's probably something more there," Cobb says slowly. "There might not be, but being prepared doesn't hurt."

"Orensen's work," Arthur says, leaving aside an unspoken _If that indeed is what he has_ , "is a standard armament-type subconscious security. The projections will be armed, violent, mistrustful, and have some sense of strategy. We're going to need a plan."

Cobb tilts his head. "Show me what you have."

Arthur gives him a tiny smile. "It goes like this." He walks up to his whiteboard. "The dream will have two levels." He sketches two circles. "First one is a standard hotel, it's only meant to buy us more time in the second level. We'll have twenty minutes in the real world," he says to Sandra's raised arm, with a pointed _Now who's not listening?_ look. "The second level is mostly Eames'." Arthur gives him an expectant look. Eames gets up and takes the marker from him.

"Right." He draws a quick approximation of the second level's layout. "The second level is an art museum – haven't decided which, yet; Ariadne, please do consult the notes I've made for you." Ariadne gives him a thumbs-up. "The basic idea is simple – the mark and I will be stealing a piece from the museum's vaults. Cobb, meanwhile, will be guarding those vaults. Once Bayliss and I have emptied them, we'll lock them up – and when Cobb comes to open them, they should be full of the information we need. Meanwhile, I'll do my best to make Bayliss spill in a more conventional way – is there something wrong, Ariadne?"

"Nothing," she says, trying to disguise her choked laughter as a cough and not succeeding very well. Sandra smacks her once, on the back, hard. "Hey!"

"Please try to keep breathing," Sandra says, eyebrows raised. Ariadne gives her the finger.

"As I was saying," Eames continues with a discreet little cough, "I'll try to get more information out of the mark, and Cobb and I will triangulate our findings once in the real world." He nods to Arthur and sits down.

"Any further questions?" Arthur scans a look across the room, then nods once. "All right. Ariadne, you have the base schemes?"

"Got everything I need," she says.

They spread across the room to work. Arthur and Cobb sit together, engaged in some intense discussion that Eames is entirely happy not to take part in. Ariadne takes control of their dining room table, spreading drafting paper all over it and arranging her pencils along its edge.

Sandra pulls out a netbook, and doesn't look particularly in need of company. Eames retreats into the office. Ariadne will call if she wants his input; in the meanwhile, he has to practice looking alluring and yet capable of quick violence for Bayliss.

~~

Come evening, Cobb is the first to leave, citing fatigue. Eames believes him. From the look of him, this may well be the first night of uninterrupted sleep Cobb’s had in ages.

Ariadne looks up from her papers as she hears the door closing, and ambles to the living room, where Sandra and Arthur are having an involved discussion about types of sedatives.

"Looks like that's it for me today," she says, looking expectantly at Arthur and Sandra.

"Team bonding time," Sandra says, with grave authority.

Ariadne perks up immediately. "I'll get the beers!"

Arthur is very obviously resigning himself to having company tonight, so Eames nudges his shoulder. "It could be fun," he says. Arthur does not look optimistic.

"If team building is so important, why did we wait until Dom left to do it?" he asks, low enough that only Eames hears, apparently rhetorical.

"Because Cobb isn't a team player," says Ariadne, whose hearing is apparently sharper than Eames thought.

Arthur scowls at this. To avert possible conflict, Eames says, "Weren't you about to go get drinks?"

Ariadne sticks her tongue out at them, but she goes out readily enough, and drags Sandra along with her. Arthur, of course, seems to think this means they're in charge of the snacks, and forges out himself for something along these lines.

This leaves Eames to pick up around the place. He's no housekeeper, and certainly no Arthur, but if they're having company that's actually _company_ and not a shoddily masked business arrangement, the place may as well look inviting. He doesn't do much – just tidies away the bits of paper and pencil stubs, puts Arthur's files in their proper place and order (it took him a while to learn Arthur's system, but it's surprisingly intuitive once one gets used to it) and returns the pillows to their place on the couch (they were on the floor, where Arthur used them to stand for buildings as he demonstrated their entrance tactic).

He's taking bowls out of the cabinet to set on the coffee table when Arthur returns home, bearing crisps and vegetables and dip (Eames would sigh at this, but it seems Arthur genuinely enjoys eating what Eames would refer to as "the food's food") and some more biscuits, the kind Eames likes as well as the butter cookies Arthur keeps for company.

Ariadne comes back while Eames is cutting carrots into sticks. He does it because – well, he enjoys messing around with food, and also Arthur is not allowed near the kitchen knives since that unfortunate time Eames startled him unintentionally.

Ariadne’s brought beer and white wine. Arthur moves next to Eames, standing on tiptoes to reach where they keep the wineglasses. Eames kisses his neck as he stretches up, not really thinking about it; by now it's an automatic response. _Arthur is near – kiss him._

When he turns to put the peeler in the sink, Ariadne is staring at them. "Look at you being all domestic," she says with unmasked glee.

"Look at you not minding your own business," Arthur says, but it's easy, lacking any bite. He must have gotten all of that out of his system already, thanks to Cobb.

"Hey, you brought me into the business. Face the consequences." She turns to the living room to set the bottles down on the table. Eames, a little meanly, hopes her arms hurt from standing around holding the things for that long.

Sandra _tsk_ s. "That girl," she says, more than a little fond.

"Is a full grown woman," Arthur says, with a hint of sharpness in his voice.

Sandra looks at him for a moment, then sighs. "I thought we talked about this."

"Yes," Arthur says tightly, "and I seem to recall what we agreed on was professionalism. Which, I might point out, precludes fondling our architect."

 _Our?_ Sandra mouths, then says, "This is off-hours. Your boyfriend just kissed you, for crying out loud. Stop being a dick, Arthur."

Well – she's right, actually, as far as Eames can tell. He looks at Arthur from the corner of his eye, unsure of how to approach this, whether he should.

"I—" Arthur says, then bites off whatever he was about to say. Instead he says, "Nevermind. This clearly isn't any of my business."

"I suppose it isn't," Sandra says, a little sad for some reason. "I do apologize for earlier, when we just arrived. It won't happen again."

"No, it's fine," Arthur says. "You shouldn't apologize. I overreacted."

"You kind of did." Then Ariadne shouts something unintelligible from the living room, and Sandra goes to see what she wants. Eames leans against the counter with his arms crossed, looking at Arthur.

"This isn't going to be a thing," Arthur says hurriedly. "We just needed to clear the air. That was it, honestly."

"Really," Eames says. "And what, precisely, _was_ in that air to begin with?"

"Stuff," Arthur says shortly. "Look, I was a dick, she was... less than helpful. I said I was sorry, she said fine, end of story. Except now whenever she shows up on a job we have to have this stupid pissing contest, just to get it out of the way."

"You knew that," Eames says slowly, "and you took her for this job?"

Arthur shrugs. "She's reliable. Decent to work with, overall. This is just a thing."

"A specific thing," Eames says. "With her. Did you two date or something?"

"Something," Arthur says. This is his tone that brooks no further discussion, so Eames gives Arthur a bowl of cherry tomatoes and sends him to put it on the coffee table.

The evening is surprisingly mellow after that, Ariadne's easy laughter and Arthur's wry humor making the course of the conversation run smoothly indeed. Sandra, Eames discovers, has travelled to a degree seen rarely even in their profession, worked and lived in more places than Eames is confident he can name.

"Some of it is just time," she says, to one of Eames' inquiries on the subject. "I'm, what, ten years older than you?" Nine, actually, which Eames is grateful Arthur doesn't point out. "That and inclination. I can't stand staying at one place for too long."

Eames casts a look around, at their warmly lit living room, the old wood of the bookshelves and the books with their bright covers. "I think I could rather get used to it, myself."

"I need to have a home," Ariadne says. "It doesn't matter if I'm there at all, but I need a space that's just mine and that nobody can take from me."

She casts an expectant look at Arthur who eventually, slowly, says, "I don't really need a place. I have two or three things – wherever I have them, that can be a home if I want it to be."

Eames puzzles over this, for the pleasure of the challenge more than anything else. Arthur's laptop, obviously, and probably his gun. A third thing... It's possible Arthur doesn't even know what his third thing is, just adding an empty slot to cover all eventualities.

"All right," Ariadne says. "Poll time. Um." She looks up at the ceiling and thinks. "The weirdest thing people asked you to do."

"Forging a chair," Eames says. An Eames chair, specifically. He'd picked up the name then and never set it down thereafter; it did something to a man, being one with furniture.

"I had to synthesize an antidote once," Sandra says. "It turned out my assistant had a natural resistance, and we used her blood for it. Only our equipment was so bad, I'd be laughing just thinking about it, normally. That or screaming at someone. The lab ended up looking like we slaughtered something in it, and my assistant lying in the middle of everything like a fucking virgin sacrifice, going 'Take my lifeblood! Take it!'" She snorts. "Last fucking time I employed a former drama major. Honestly."

"Pass," Arthur says, and Ariadne pounces on him.

"Oh, come on!" she implores. "I'll tell you mine."

He hesitates. "It's a professional secret." Then he gets that decisive look Eames loves. "Tell you what. If I don't get around to using it during the Bayliss job, I'll tell you about it later. Okay?"

"All right," Ariadne says, reluctantly. "But in that case I'm not telling mine, either."

"New poll," Sandra says. "The job that made you want to quit dreaming. Everybody has one."

Ariadne gives her an apprehensive look. "You start."

Sandra nods at her. "I used to be an architect, you know."

"Everybody used to be an architect," Ariadne mutters. "Why doesn't anyone _stay_ an architect, that's what I want to know."

"This is part of it, actually." Sandra takes Ariadne's hand for a moment, then lets go. "Come to think of it – Arthur, weren't you on that job?"

"I think so," Arthur says. "With Chen, right?" Chen is an extractor Arthur speaks highly of. She's a little too by-the-book for Eames' own preferences, but he'll grant that she's not bad.

"That one, yes. Chen really did quit the job after that. Went to farm sheep somewhere. All right, all right, I'm getting to it." Sandra fends off Ariadne's poking finger. "So there we were, in an accurate representation of a medieval village. It was the second level, and the first was an archaeological dig – the idea was to get the subject to hide the idea in the past – that is, the second level – and unearth it in the present, i.e., the first level."

"Okay, I think I know where this is going," Ariadne says, making a face.

"Yeah," Arthur says. "Guess who did the mark's militarization?"

"Althea," Eames realizes with a dawning horror. "You've been through one of her death-traps, haven't you? I have no idea how you abide her."

"I admire her professional abilities," Arthur says, cool as you please. Eames huffs.

"So yeah, since you're all determined to ruin my punchline," Sandra says wryly. "The village got the plague. All the village, at once. Dying people everywhere. I kept having to remind myself it wasn't real."

It's fitting, Eames supposes. Althea specializes in, to call it one name, non-military militarizations – the kind where the entire dream world turned on you in the worst possible way.

"The worst of it was," Sandra says, "we couldn't abort. Our chemist upped the dosage too much, and dying in the dream meant risking limbo. So we just went on trying to dodge plague carriers, shooting goddamned rats and fleeing for our lives. And throughout that entire thing, the only thought that kept me sane was, _When I get out of here, I'm shooting Richard in the ass_."

"I assume Richard was the chemist," Eames says. He never heard of the guy, which he supposes is self-explanatory.

"That's right," Sandra says with dark satisfaction. "Was. That's exactly the right word. Oh, I didn't kill him," she says to Ariadne's horrified look. "Our mark ended up doing that – long story. Anyway, after that I swore I won't go under with anyone that incompetent holding the controls."

"So you learned how to do it yourself," Arthur says, and nobody but Eames can hear the admiring undertone in his voice.

"Pretty much," Sandra says, leaning back. "Okay, that was me. You?"

"When Cobb's ex-wife stabbed me in the guts," Ariadne says, glumly. Eames winces – yeah, that's an unpleasant start to your professional life. He's even happier than before Cobb isn't actually present for this.

"Arthur?" Eames says, trying to turn the conversation.

Arthur winces. "Do I have to?"

"You don't have to do anything," Eames says, even as Ariadne pouts. Sandra raises one eyebrow at Arthur.

"Oh, fine," Arthur says. "Just don't... make it into anything, okay? It happened, it was weird, done. No commentary."

"I swear," Eames says immediately. Ariadne raises her fingers in a boy scout salute. Sandra just nods.

"Okay." He lets a breath out. "This is about a bad chemist as well. Though in this case, not incompetent so much as _clinically insane_. You guys worked with Bonita?"

"Heard of her," Eames says, cautious. Ariadne looks perplexed, and Sandra looks pained.

"Did you hear about the Glasgow incident?" Arthur's voice is clipped, precise and detached. This is not a good sign.

Eames hadn't, but Sandra gasps. "Wait. That was you?"

Arthur nods, mouth drawn into a tight line.

"Oh. Shit." Sandra actually turns pale. "Oh, man, I'm sorry."

"Wasn't your fault," Arthur says.

"No, just, that it happened to you. Or at all." She reaches out in an abortive gesture, clasping Ariadne's hand instead of whatever touch she meant to offer Arthur. Eames is glad she didn't; Arthur doesn't look like he would welcome the attempt just now.

"Speaking for those of us who weren't working fifteen years ago," Ariadne says loudly, "can we get an explanation?"

Arthur's face is blank. His voice is nearly monotonous when he says, "Twelve years ago, Ari, a chemist named Bonita came up with a compound that reversed sensations. It could make pleasure be perceived as pain, and vice versa."

Ariadne looks at him, but when Arthur says no more, she opens her mouth then shuts it slowly, eyes widening as she stands the implications of what Arthur said. "And. Wait. She used it on – "

"I shot her," Arthur says flatly. "In the neck." Arthur doesn't kill lightly in the real world, Eames knows, tries not to do it at all. "People who worked with her knew. Everyone who was in the business then knew. Nobody ever said a word to me about it."

Sandra says, faintly, "Well, that explains a lot."

All right, the subject needs to change. Now. "Shall I tell my story, then?" Eames says with a lightness he doesn't feel.

Arthur looks at him, and Eames reads relief in the set of his shoulders. He wants to take Arthur's hand, telegraph a _You're welcome_ by touch, but he thinks Arthur is perhaps best left alone just now. Instead, Eames opens his mouth and recounts the tale. "So I've mentioned I'll not go near anyone who had Althea work on them, yes?"

"Repeatedly." Arthur rolls his eyes, and Eames is wary of punching him in the shoulder right now, even lightly, so he rolls his eyes back at him instead.

"Well, this is why," Eames says. "So we were working on this bloke, yeah? Honest-to-God railroad tycoon, richer than Croesus. Needed to find out—" Eames waves a hand, "—can't even be bothered to remember now. We never did get it. I forged the man's dear old mother, sweetest little thing you could imagine, him visiting her in her hospital bed – completely charming, I assure you. I had him in my hand," Eames clenches it for effect, "I tell you, in my very hand, when he turns to speak to me and suddenly I can't hear a word he says."

Arthur, the bastard, has the audacity to look intrigued by this. Ariadne, at least, looks waiting to be delightfully horrified, like a kid listening to a ghost story. Sandra looks like she has hankies and sympathy prepared in case they're needed.

Eames continues. "At first I thought – and I was forging the mother, I remind you, so I was thinking rather like a daffy old woman – it was my hearing going. But the next thing you know, the color started draining out of everything."

He doesn't tell them the rest of it, not exactly, how everything slowly faded away until he was left by himself, in a grey void that held absolutely nothing else, not even the sound of his own breath, not even the feeling of his own beating pulse. He'd checked it, before waking up. He couldn't so much as feel the warmth of his own skin.

But it's an easy enough story to make light of, to turn into a joke – poor old Eamsie, stuck in an old woman's mind, her terror a laughing matter rather than the immediate, visceral thing it was then. Ariadne laughs, but Sandra just looks thoughtful, and Arthur's look is cutting deeper than it should.

After Eames finishes, with a hastily tacked-on, "And that's why I'll never work with that horrible harridan," they grow quiet, until Arthur stands up and unsubtly announces bed time.

They make sure that Ariadne and Sandra have everything – blankets, pillows, towels, check – and go off to bed. Eames is pleasantly surprised that Arthur doesn't turn away from him, doesn't use the pretext of sleep to push Eames away. Instead, Arthur moves his leg so their ankles are just touching, presses two fingers to Eames' wrist.

"Good night," Arthur says, and Eames says, "Good night, darling," with more relief than he would care to admit.

~~

The job progresses. Eames, who did the brunt of his share of the work beforehand, mostly ends up assisting Ariadne and occasionally providing a practice target for Cobb and Arthur. He's stopped dreaming again, going under as often as he does to practice Alex into perfection. The lack of them is not unwelcome.

The team dynamics seem to have settled down some. He catches Ariadne and Sandra making out in the kitchen twice, which seems to be more Ariadne's fault than otherwise. If Arthur has any further problems with them, he never says anything about it.

Cobb and Arthur are falling back into their old rhythm, the familiar snap-bite give-and-take that took them to the top of their respective fields at one time. Eames can see how it brings more out of Arthur, forces him to think _wide_ rather than deep; Cobb, in turn, is forced to rethink his plans over and over as Arthur pokes tiny moth-holes in Cobb's logic that make the entire thing unravel.

Cobb probably needs a rest from this; his thinking process is certainly addled enough as it is. And it's taking a toll on Arthur, as well. Eames is beginning to understand why Arthur didn't want Cobb on this job. It's clearly aggravating Arthur just to talk to him.

"If he mentions," Arthur says, one evening after Cobb leaves, "going deeper _one_ more time—"

"You will – what, exactly?" Eames puts a cautious hand on Arthur's back. Arthur leans into it, some tension flowing out of him with a relief Eames feels viscerally.

"Nothing, probably." Arthur sighs. His head dips forward, exposing the nape of his neck in what is clearly a request. Eames rubs two fingers along the bumps of his spine, pushing fingertips into Arthur's scalp in a move that will utterly destroy the sleek, product-sculpted line of his hair.

"So no going deeper," Eames says, amused.

The noise Arthur makes in reply can't be called speech by any proper definition. Arthur's eyes are sliding closed, his head slowly falling to the side until it's resting against Eames' chest.

"Tired?" Eames inquires. Arthur nods against him, just barely. "All right, then. Come on, off to bed with you."

Eames is still getting used to the way Arthur is, on a job. It's strange, seeing the other side of it as he does now. Arthur on a job is all relentless focus, working all the hours God gives and a few extra snatched with the aid of a PASIV. Eames used to assume that Arthur lets loose when he's alone, making himself think about something other than the job. Partying as hard as he worked. If anybody partied as hard as Arthur worked, though, likely they'd be dead within a year.

Then again, what a year _that_ would be.

But no, it appears that after a hard day's work Arthur is prone to mumbling, the occasional surreptitious nap, and sitting hunched at the end of the sofa until Eames nudges him to go to sleep properly.

He doesn't initiate sex, doesn't ask or even seem to be particularly interested; Eames would be worried, except that once in bed, Arthur will be affectionate – bordering on clingy, even, kissing and touching, falling asleep still holding on to some part or other of Eames' anatomy. Possibly Arthur is just that tired. It certainly seems so.

This is all good and fine, but this job seems to be taking too much out of Arthur for Eames' liking. He's hardly going to complain about the dry spell, but Eames has a good notion of what Arthur's optimal operating conditions are, and if the guy is too tired to so much as wank every so often, that can't mean anything good.

Possibly Eames shouldn't be paying as much attention to Arthur's masturbation habits as he is.

Eames tries to make it up by feeding Arthur as well as he can under the circumstances. Cobb looks suspicious whenever Eames enters the kitchen, but Ariadne will eat anything and Sandra is downright helpful on occasion. She doesn't have much to do, either – Eames gathers that she's been spending most of her time catching up on professional literature.

She's pleasant enough company, when she puts her mind to it. Eames is almost hesitant to do anything that might rock the boat, but she's calm enough that he doubts they'll get into a fight they can't mend.

As Sandra expertly shreds some lettuce for the salad, Eames says, "Arthur must have been hell to work with, when he was younger."

"You mean, like how he is with Cobb?" Sandra's gaze is curious and frank. "He wasn't really like that. He got a lot more intense in the last few years, I think." Then her mouth curves into a secret smile. "But somehow I don't think that's what you're asking at all."

"Not really," Eames says. He slices the last cucumber and moves on to the mushrooms. He doesn't much like them himself, but Ariadne and Arthur devour them, and Eames rather enjoys fishing the blasted things out of his own plate and putting them in Arthur's. "It looks like you had a big nasty fight."

"You mean, a big nasty breakup," Sandra says dryly.

That is, in fact, exactly what Eames means, but he keeps his response to this as noncommittal as possible.

"It kind of was." Sandra grabs a stool and sits down. "If I'm telling stories, I don't want to do it standing up."

"So there's a story, is there?" Eames takes over the lettuce-shredding. He might as well be useful while he's prying.

"Something like," Sandra says, and Eames feels an odd sense of deja vu. "We only went on," she waggles her fingers, "three or so dates. Then he looked into my things, saw something he shouldn't have, and freaked out."

"That's not such a long story," Eames notes.

Sandra raises her eyebrows. "Oh? You want more?"

Eames shakes his head. He can fill out the details, he thinks, given what he knows of Arthur's history. He feels oddly torn, thinking of how much he, himself, resented Arthur's disregard for privacy, then of the twist of Arthur's mouth as he talked about his first girlfriend. Without thinking, he says, "Pain can be part of a loving relationship," not mimicking very well because he only had Arthur's impression of the words, and Arthur's not particularly good at maintaining the right inflections.

Sandra's looking at him oddly. "So he told you about that."

Eames mentally kicks himself. Outwardly, he affects an apologetic smile. "Not in so many words."

"Look." Sandra pinches the bridge of her nose. She looks like this is a conversation she already had an unfortunate number of times too many. "I wouldn't have had to say any of that if he didn't poke into things that weren't any of his goddamned business to begin with."

Eames feels a sense of kinship with her on that, actually. It's ridiculously easy to sit beside her, to incline his body subtly towards hers, to nod sympathetically. "He does get a tad invasive."

Sandra snorts. "If anything, Ariadne's worse. But at least she likes what she finds."

Eames makes an inquiring noise and Sandra smiles at him, halfway between shy and defiant. "Are you asking?" she says. "You should be careful about that, you know. Because I will answer."

"If you don't, I might ask Ariadne," Eames mock-threatens. It's a good move, evidently, because Sandra laughs and relaxes, her posture losing its rigidity until her thigh is almost touching his.

"God, don't," she says. "Goodness knows what that child will tell you."

"She's not _that_ young," Eames says, just for something to say. Ariadne is twenty-two, and how old – or young – that is, is entirely a matter of context.

"There's a lot she doesn't know," Sandra says. Her voice takes on a faraway quality. "I do like to teach those who will learn."

"Arthur must have been a _horrible_ student," Eames says, leaning conspiratorially close, and that's it, he has her. He knows that look in her eyes, that position of the hands. Now she wants to talk to him; all he has to do is listen.

"God, he was awful," she says. "Worth it, though, every minute."

"How old was he?"

"Nineteen," she says, and there's definitely something dreamy about the look she has. "That's a little young for me, normally, but you should have seen him. He was amazing."

He still is, in Eames' opinion, and seems only to improve with time, but Eames utters encouraging noises as she expounds on the virtues of Arthur's younger self.

"And then," Sandra says, her smile widening in the anticipation of a punchline, "he gets it into his mind to go through my things, and finds one of my floggers. God," and her tone turns rueful at that, "that hissy fit was _epic_. I didn't think he was actually listening to a word I said."

Eames feels a pang of familiarity at that. "Yes, doesn't he just," he murmurs.

"I know, right?" She slants him an amused look. "Thank God for professionalism, I guess. I don't know if we could have worked together, otherwise."

"Did you?" Eames says.

She shrugs. "On and off. We mesh well together." She pulls a face. "That is, on jobs where I actually have something to do."

"Nobody forced your hand, coming here," Eames points out.

"I bet you think that," she says, looking fondly to the living room, where Ariadne is bent over her interminable models, tongue between her teeth in unselfconscious focus.

Eames resumes salad-making. He himself would quite like to eat at some point this evening. Sandra remains on her chair, staring vaguely at the wall.

"I do wonder about that, you know," she says. "I get second thoughts. Should I have done something different, did I hurt anyone I should have helped."

Eames hums noncommittally as he drizzles olive oil over the bowl.

She turns to him. "What do you think?" There's a hint of bitterness in her voice, something the slightest bit distressed. "Oh, come on," she says to whatever she sees in his face. "Everybody has an opinion. Just say it already."

"They seem perfectly fine to me," Eames says, but he can't bring himself to look at her as he does. He believes that she has the best of intentions, has no reason to believe otherwise, but – not to put too fine a point on it – she hurts people and enjoys it.

"Campsite rule, huh?" Sandra snorts, and Eames drops the knife.

"Do not," he says, in a completely level tone, "mention Dan Savage to me."

"Oh?" Sandra picks the knife up, gives it a cursory wash under the tap. When she places the knife next to him, Eames still hasn't moved. He shakes himself out of it, forces himself to take the knife again. "I like his column," she says, oblivious. "Don't you?"

Perhaps he's overreacting – is there a greater folly than getting all worked up over something somebody said on the internet? – but he can't help it. Eames takes the knife, holding it too tight. "He's a cunt," Eames says, focusing his attention on the – oh, sod it. He stirs the chopped vegetables around with the knife and decides to call it dinner. "Get the bread, will you?"

Sandra doesn't, just stands there looking at him. "All right, what the hell did he say to piss _you_ off?"

Eames waves her off, an airy gesture. "Something or other. Can't be arsed to remember."

Actually, he remembers it all too well. _I certainly hope you’re not another asexual/minimally sexual person who wants a normally sexual partner because you take a perverse pleasure in depriving someone else of sex, constantly rejecting that person’s advances, and ultimately destroying their confidence._

Eames supposes that shit like that is what he gets for reading a sex advice column, but he has a curious nature and he's compelled toward what he doesn't, on a visceral level, understand. There's half the thrill of forging, right there.

Sandra nods, slowly. There's an obvious _Okay, have it your way_ intended there, but Eames doesn't feel like doing anything about it. Let her back off, for now. He got what he wanted to know, anyway.

That night he tucks Arthur next to him, close, and runs his hands over Arthur's soft skin. It's not smooth, though, lightly furred and marred as it is with the occasional scar. Eames traces the ones he knows, bullet wounds and places where a needle went in one time too many.

His fingers stop just below Arthur's navel, where there are four shiny pink lines moving straight down, stopping just short of his crotch. The lines are about half the width of Eames' fingernails. Eames wants to stop looking at them, but his eyes return there of their own volition, his hand coming to rest there again and again until Arthur knocks it away with a muffled, irritated sigh.

Arthur falls asleep on his stomach, his head pillowed on Eames' arm, which will doubtlessly go numb within the next five minutes. Eames hasn't the heart to move it away.

~~

The corridors that Ariadne’s made are beautiful. Eames closes his eyes and takes in the smell of polish, the sound of his footsteps softly muffled by the worn carpet. Good architects are so hard to come by.

Then he opens his eyes, and goes over it again with a more critical look. The atmosphere is perfect, Ariadne doesn't need his help with that, but what she knows about art is entirely cerebral. She has no understanding of how the pieces ought to _feel_ , which, inside the dream, can be easily as important as making them look right.

Their chosen piece is particularly important – and yes, Eames is glad he asked Ariadne to look at it, because it's all wrong. It looks as it should, of course, and the physical (mental? Eames isn't certain how to call it) sensation of the material under his hands is precisely correct, but.

"Look at it, Ariadne," Eames says. "What do you see?"

She shrugs apologetically. "Something that tries to look human and fails?"

Eames sighs despairingly. From her corner, Sandra chuckles, and Eames casts a reproving look at her. "You aren't helping," he says, rather pointedly.

"Sorry," she says. "I have no idea what it's supposed to be, either."

"A woman, for starters," Eames says, before he can be driven to completely give up on this and hope Bayliss' mind conjures the emotional associations himself. But that can't be relied on, not given the nature of Eames' plan.

The thing is, nobody goes on a short, quick heist to steal something larger than a man and several times heavier. The supposed plan, the one he'll give to Bayliss, needs to be something else, small and easily removable. Then, if everything works correctly, Bayliss will fall in love with this sculpture and insist on stealing it instead. This will give Dom the time he'll need to get into Bayliss' mental safes. But none of it will work if the piece can't capture Bayliss' heart. He needs to fall in love at first sight, or it will be all for nothing.

Eames quite enjoys the fact that being a soppy romantic is, on occasion, written right into his job description.

"Look at her position," Eames says. "It's right there in the name, _reclining figure._ She's not having a nap, she's there to seduce."

"I don't see it," Ariadne says doubtfully, while Sandra rolls her eyes and says, "Male gaze, much?"

"Exactly," Eames says. "Personal opinions on the subject aside, there's no denying that this is something likely to be employed by almost all well-known artists since the Grecian period." What he's saying is a gross oversimplification, bordering on the factually untrue; then again, he's saying it mostly to rile Sandra up, and that goal is obviously achieved.

"Look, just because—" she starts saying, then is stopped by Ariadne's firm hand over her mouth.

"He's just trying for a reaction, jeez," Ariadne says. "Don't encourage him." And to Eames, she says, "I see what you're doing there. Quit it."

Eames closes his eyes and manfully holds back the urge to bash his head against the nearest wall. "My apologies," he says, curt. "At any rate, Ariadne – it doesn't matter if it's true or not. To grab Bayliss, this is what we need. Could you do that?"

Ariadne lets out a breath, her forehead furrowing in concentration as she lays her hands on the sculpture, kneeling to press her cheek to it. Eames can see the change as it happens, can see something vital pouring out of Ariadne and into the piece. When Ariadne rises, the white surface of the figure glows softly, not something actually perceivable by the eye but something Eames can sense. He wants to touch it, now, to lie down beside it.

"Excellent," Eames says, after Ariadne looks at him for a moment, and smiles at her with honest happiness. It's hard for him to remember why he was so irritable just moments ago.

Ariadne climbs to sit in the figure's lap. "It feels friendly," she says. "Hey, Sandra, check it out!"

"I didn't know you could do this," Sandra comments. She comes to stand by the statue, but doesn't touch it. "Is this—" She looks aside, catches Eames' eye, then says, "—that thing you mentioned?"

"Well, some of it," Ariadne says. Eames supposes he has no right to inquire what the hell they're talking about. "And some I improvised. Maybe I'll get a chance to show you what it's like on this job."

"Like that technique Arthur's keeping secret," Sandra says dryly. "I like how this job is turning into a showcase."

Ariadne jumps off the sculpture's stand. "Don't act like you don't enjoy it."

"It's not very relevant, really," Sandra says. "I won't be coming under with you, remember?"

Ariadne grins. "Then I'll just have to get you under and show it to you some other time."

Sandra laughs, and the dream wobbles until Eames blinks his eyes to see the living room ceiling.

Arthur's kneeling beside him, pressing a bit of clean gauze to Eames' wrist where the IV cannula isn't anymore. "What do you think?"

Eames blinks. His eyes are a little dry. "I think we're ready."

Arthur nods sharply, once. "I'll get everything organized."

~~

Once again they're all gathered in the living room as Arthur stands in front of a whiteboard. "Timing," Arthur says, "is everything." Eames leans back in his chair, chin resting on his hand, and enjoys Arthur's predictable ways. There is nothing in this speech that they don't know already, but hearing it is good for them, will ready them further for action.

"First level," Arthur says. "Standard hotel, Ariadne is the dreamer." Ariadne nods, and slants a glance at Cobb, who hopefully has the second level well memorized. "Second level, museum art heist. Cobb is the dreamer, Eames has the main contact with the subject."

"And what will you do?" Sandra interjects.

Arthur smiles at this, like he's genuinely glad she asked. "Me, I'm the getaway driver," he says.

Sandra nods. "And above everything, I watch over your sorry asses."

"So that's everyone," Arthur says. "All right. Sandra, you armed?" Sandra pulls her Sig Sauer out of its holster, then pushes it back at Arthur's nod. "Questions?" There are none, and they're off.

~~

Grabbing Bayliss isn't a particularly easy part, but it's one Eames has little to do with. Mostly it's Arthur, Cobb and Sandra doing that part. All Eames has to do is buy a train ticket and show up.

When he arrives, Arthur is securing Bayliss while Sandra configures the PASIV. "I'm using ‘Yesterday’ to cue the kick," she says without looking up. "That okay?"

"Fine, thank you for asking," Eames says, and sits down, waiting for her to hook him up. He's glad that apparently she didn't take his little tantrum to heart. It's important to have a cordial relationship with someone that sticks needles in you, after all.

For all the talks they’ve had about extra-tight militarizations, it's not as if standard militarizations are a walk in the park. Eames is barely under for a minute when the hotel staff starts glaring at them.

"Shit," Ariadne hisses, as the projections approach them menacingly.

"Right," Eames says grimly, conjuring a weapon, but his attention is derailed by the fact that Arthur darts, lightning-quick, and plants a kiss on Cobb.

Eames doesn't even have the time to say, "Really?" before the scenery... rises.

The polished marble floor turns into quicksand in patches, swallowing projections down. Perfectly innocent pieces of furniture suddenly develop tentacles (honestly, Arthur, _tentacles?_ ) and grab knife-bearing limbs.

After a few minutes, the lobby is empty but for the four of them.

"Holy crap," Ariadne says in a small voice. "And here I thought you were joking that time you kissed me. Uh, it was during the Fischer job," she says to Eames, "you guys weren't together then, right?"

Eames considers answering when Cobb says, "Is this really the time to be discussing this?"

Without so much as glancing at Cobb, Arthur says, "No joke," already looking distracted. "The dreamer has to be someone I know and it doesn't work with everyone, but, as you see," he gestures at the empty hallway, "it's pretty effective when it does."

It's not the first time Eames has seen Arthur do his kiss trick. He tried it with Eames once, long before Eames even thought of trying anything with him. It was a quick, dry peck, and had no effect whatsoever. Eames has worked with Arthur long enough by now to gather the pattern of it, and what he knows now makes it painfully obvious how this works. The people this works best with are the ones who seek Arthur's company most diligently, and often the ones Arthur tries hardest to avoid.

Eames glances at Ariadne, slightly baffled that Arthur even tried with her – although, right, Arthur wouldn't have known that Ariadne's gay, since to the best of Eames' knowledge Ariadne doesn't regularly discuss that sort of thing with Arthur. Strange that it worked with Cobb, though.

Although, perhaps, not so strange as Eames would have liked to think, considering the way Mal's shade used to smile when she shot Arthur somewhere painful. Because Cobb is good at buildings but not so good with people, and Eames could spot the flaws in his projection of Mal, the way her expressions sometimes turned inhuman and _wrong_ when his subconscious was trying for something he couldn't make from memory.

"Darling," Eames says under his breath, to himself as much as to Arthur, "If I should ever ask you about your past relationship with the Cobbs, remind me that I don't want to actually know."

Arthur, if he hears, ignores him utterly. Eames sighs and checks his weapon. They're here for a job, after all.

~~

Bayliss is in the conference room. They manage to find their way there without notable incident, pausing at the door to tidy themselves up.

Eames takes a minute to enjoy the sharp figures they all cut, walking in pressed and besuited. Arthur in particular looks lovely, the flawlessly neat lines of him a joy to look at, the black of his suit too dark for real cloth to accomplish. It swallows the light, and the watcher's gaze.

When they come in, Bayliss doesn't even look up, and Eames feels the momentary annoyance that he always does when something beautiful goes unappreciated.

Ariadne sits down facing him, and slides a handful of papers over in his direction. Eames coached her about this, how to look like a prim and proper businesswoman. Dom has more experience, but in Eames' opinion it's better that Ariadne do it. She's more likely to put Bayliss off-guard.

Arthur's standing to the side, unobtrusive, until Ariadne looks to him and says, "Could you bring us all something to drink, please?"

The drink will be drugged, and then they'll go down to the second level. Which means that Eames need only wait here for about five more minutes listening to Ariadne and Bayliss go on about the stock market.

Arthur returns and offers Bayliss his drink. Bayliss is unconscious within ten minutes, and Arthur has the dream representation of a PASIV spread out and waiting for them to plug in. Eames does admire his efficiency.

~~

The second level, or at least what Eames can see of it at the moment, is complete and utter darkness. He grimaces – it's easier to put on a forge when you can see yourself or, for that matter, anything – but he isn't the best at what he does for nothing.

It's different, putting on a forge for a job. Eames has to be more careful, settle into it more thoroughly than he does for training session. It's very like the difference between everyday makeup and the greasepaint one wears on stage – harder to remove, necessarily so. There are failsafes one takes, to avoid losing a forge on the job, which can be potentially lethal; those means aren't without risks themselves, but it's not like Eames is in this line of work for his health.

So he takes his time, pulling Alex over him and into him and all around, until she's opening her eyes to blink at the darkness and brushes aside a stray thought that isn't hers.

She closes her eyes, navigating by feel until she finds a door. The room is cramped with crates, the smell of ancient dust and ozone thick around her. She's pretty sure those are cobwebs she just felt brushing across her fingertips.

The door is creaky when she opens it, but there's nobody on the other side to hear. Alex looks around – apparently the room she just came out of is one of the museum's storage rooms. She brushes grey dirt from her cargo pants, straightens and looks around. She knows where she's supposed to go, more or less, and the rest she'll navigate by feel.

Bayliss is one floor down, in front of a Renaissance painting exhibit, frowning at the pieces.

"Got what we need?" she asks him without preamble.

He seems startled when he turns around to look at her. "I – what?"

"For the break-in, yeah?" She makes an impatient gesture. Fucking amateurs, she has no idea why she took him on for the job.

He swallows and produces a key. She smiles approvingly. Oh, yeah, that's why she took him. Because he's got access. There's a small voice in the back of her mind saying that isn't how a heist is supposed to go at all, but she hushes it. Simple is best, isn't it? Easiest way to open a door is with a key.

"Great," she says. "All right, follow me."

Bayliss is wearing all black, she notes, with a little huff of disappointment. Rookie mistake, that. Her clothes are a dark dirty blue. It's a working color, good for concealing scratches or dirt or – most importantly – her, in a dark room. Black stands out too much.

The corridors they're climbing are steadily growing narrower. The place they're headed for is a service entrance, a half-floor that doesn't appear on the official blueprints. That's her favorite part of this: how unlikely it is that anyone will even find out what they've taken, at least not until it's far too late to do anything about it.

Alex is deep in thought, making small lists of what she needs to take care of – escape routes, fencing the piece, making sure Bayliss keeps his mouth shut after. This is why it takes her nearly a minute to notice they're in the wrong room. The picture on the wall is wrong, not the piece they're meant to steal at all. She curses softly and turns to leave.

"Where are we going?" Bayliss says – loudly, damn the man. Almost as soon as he speaks Alex hears footsteps in the corridor. She shuts the door quickly and claps her hand over Bayliss' mouth, heart beating fast.

The footsteps grow louder, then fade. Alex lets him go. He stands where he is, staring transfixed at the painting on the wall. It doesn't look like much to her, but then again, all she knows about art she learned from auction catalogs. It's just one of those modern paintings, splotches of paint that don't look like anything to her. Trying to make sense of it makes her eyes hurt.

Bayliss' voice is a shock in her ears when he speaks. "Are we going?"

She tears her eyes away from the painting. She must have been staring at it, God knows why. She shakes herself up. "Yes."

~~

 _This museum_ , Alex thinks, _has too many goddamned mirrors in it._ She kinda wants to break a few, but that's only likely to draw unwanted attention, and besides she promised her therapist not to do that anymore.

It doesn't help that Bayliss keeps _looking_ at her, like... She doesn't even know how to call it, can't pin a name on it and there's a world of unpleasant little thoughts rising in her head when she tries. Fuck it. It's probably just her imagination. That and the goddamned mirrors.

Probably that's why she gets lost, again. It makes her want to kick something. It's not like her, to get turned around like that. Maybe it's that asshole who sold her the museum map, he looked like a dodgy fucker.

So in spite of the fact that they're supposed to be in the medieval section, they find themselves in a courtyard. The night's air is pleasant, at least, cool against her skin, the grass wet with dew that's seeping into her crappy shoes. She pauses for a moment to enjoy it, and Bayliss walks right past her.

Alex makes a move to grab him, but he's speeding up and she doesn't catch him like she meant, only grazing her fingernails across his shoulder. He doesn't even seem to notice, making a beeline towards the statue in the middle of the clearing.

It's a big, ugly motherfucker. It'll fetch a good price, Alex thinks, but they don't have the time or the resources to get that away tonight.

"Come on," she says, grabbing Bayliss' arm. His gaze turns to her, then down to the scratches she left on his shoulder. One of them has little red droplets lining it, almost black in the faint light of the courtyard. She swallows an apology – fuck him, he should've stayed in place.

"Just give me a minute," he says, terse, but his body is already starting to move towards her.

"We don't have a fucking minute," she says, low and calm. "The guards are gonna be here any second. Do you want that painting or not?"

"I'm not sure." His voice is slow, too slow. Considering something that should be fact already.

Goddamnit. This is why she doesn't work with rookies. "Well, you'd better _get_ sure right fucking now, or I'm leaving you here for the guards."

His mouth curves into a tiny smile. "You wouldn't."

The hell she wouldn't. Who does that asshole think he is? "Try me," she says.

Thankfully, he turns then. But then he says, "Okay, change of plans," and that's _not_ how this is supposed to go. "We're taking this," he says, pointing at the statue.

Her face twists into a snarl, but he looks at her, impassive. "Either we're taking it," he says, "or I'm not coming, and you can go open that safe by yourself. I'd like to see you try."

Well, she'd like to see him being skewered by rusty knives, but does that help her? She tamps down on her anger. It's not likely to help right now. "Why," she says, "should I even be remotely interested in that thing? Who's gonna pay me for it, huh?"

"Me," he says, and the hell of it is, she believes him.

Against her better judgment, she nods, slowly. "All right," she says. "So what did you have in mind?"

His earlier smile comes to life again, this time with a predatory glint of teeth. "You know what I think? I think this doesn't have to be either/or."

She nods slowly, and listens to him while he gets his idea of a plan rolling. Bayliss is an utter dick, but at least he thinks on his feet.

~~

She called their getaway driver, who'll help Bayliss to remove the sculpture. She's going to remove the picture they meant to steal in the first place. It's not an ideal arrangement and she resents the fuck out of Bayliss for switching things up on her, but realistically there's not much she can do about it.

She scrambles up flights of dusty stairs, as the ceilings become lower and the wallpaper peels around her. The light comes from old yellow bulbs, dangling precariously at the ends of half-exposed wires. She tilts her head aside to avoid one when she comes to the door.

It's a simple door, one that she could kick down if she tried hard enough. A safe, huh? Shows what that fucker knows. But still, it's better like this, sliding the key noiselessly into the lock.

And what do you know: There's a goddamn mirror on the wall. Fucking typical.

She comes closer, in spite of her own misgivings. It's just a piece of reflective glass. She shouldn't react to it like this, that's a stupid thing to do. But she stares at it, and at herself, and feels herself tremble.

Mirrors are a problem. They make her forget who she is.

She sees herself there, for a second – dark hair and dark eyes and slender frame, nothing anyone would really look at twice – and then she sees images flickering across in rapid succession. A tall blonde woman, the type she used to hate helplessly on sight; an older man with graying hair; a little girl, looking up at her with questioning eyes; a man, bulked with muscle, with a wary look in his eyes.

The man she sees is sitting on a couch in a room somewhere, and this is why mirrors are a bad idea, because she finds herself thinking, _I remember this._

~~

Ariadne sighed. "I'm so fucking tired," she said, flopping down to sit in Eames' lap. Eames smiled and put a hand around her back, companionable.

"You've been working hard," Sandra said, sympathetic. Arthur, who just walked in from the kitchen, turned his eyes on Eames and Ariadne in rapid succession. Eames would have to ask him about that later. At the time he just patted Ariadne on the shoulder and sent her to lean against Sandra on the love seat.

Arthur came to sit next to him, closer than he normally did with company around. Sandra started telling some story, something they've heard before, but nice enough to listen to, given their weary states at the time.

"What I don't get," Ariadne said, interrupting her, "is what the hell happens to all the architects." The story was about yet another architect-turned-extractor.

Sandra made an inquisitive noise, but Arthur said, "I have a theory."

"That it's a demon?" Ariadne said, which caused some general snorting. "No, really, what?"

"It's about creation," Arthur said. His eyes were closed, his forehead touching Eames' shoulder. It was all Eames could do not to pet him shamelessly. "And permanence. People become dream-architects because they love to create, and they achieve greatness out of love for what they do."

"But it fucks them up, doesn't it," Sandra said, "that everything they make is so flimsy by nature."

Arthur opened his eyes to nod at her, and Eames was struck by the rapport between those two, the way conversations were effortless and unending between them. "Every architect I've ever met had the exact same nervous breakdown. _What am I doing, what is this even for, what's the purpose, who the fuck_ cares. None of it will be there anymore when the dreamer wakes up." He shifted, tucking himself closer against Eames.

"God, yeah, that conversation," Sandra said. "I call it _the architect's mid-life crisis_."

Ariadne twitched. "I don't feel like that at all," she said.

"Well, I don't want to say that you will," Sandra said, tucking a curl of Ariadne's hair behind her ear. "It's just that experience speaks for itself, you know? And it happens most often to the best ones. The mediocre ones don't care. So I'd be pretty surprised if it didn't happen to you."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, until Ariadne said, "And what happens to the ones that do?"

"Most of them?" Arthur said. "They find something else to do. Take point or learn how to forge or start farming sheep. They find another job, or leave the business altogether if it's too much for them."

Ariadne's eyes were bright, looking at Arthur. "And the others?"

"They end up doing militarizations," Eames answered for him. "It's permanent, and the better ones think of it as an art form."

"You can do seriously amazing things with that kind of expertise," Arthur added. "That trick I promised to show you, Althea taught me that when I worked with her. Most people never even scratch the surface of what you can do with dreams."

Eames knew he was making a face, but he couldn't help it. Arthur looked up at him, exasperated. "What?" he asked. "Look, I know you have some kind of grudge against her, but let it go, okay? She's just doing her job."

"She's not," Eames said, with more vehemence than he meant to express. "I mean, of course she is, but – oh, bugger." He sank into the couch and firmly closed his mouth.

There was a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Ariadne. "Inquiring minds want to know," she said, with the same wry voice she used on Cobb. The comparison did not feel particularly flattering.

Eames took a deep breath. "She enjoys it," he said flatly. "She makes nightmares, and she loves it. It's not even that efficient a method, comparing; people just like to use it because it hurts those who try to make their way in, and she's happy to do that." Arthur's eyes took a worried look, focusing on Eames. "I don't like it when people enjoy hurting others," Eames said quietly. "Not for hurt's own sake."

Ariadne looked like she wanted to protest for a moment, but Sandra just gave him a long look and said, "You want to spit it out?"

Eames didn't, Eames completely meant to shut his face about the subject, but she did ask. "I can't understand it," he said, the ultimate concession from a forger. "I don't want to. Hurting the people you love. I think it's awful. It doesn't matter if they let you, it still is."

Unexpectedly, Sandra's expression was amused. "If they _let_ me, yeah, that would be pretty goddamned awful." Her smile turned oddly gentle. "I don't do it because they let me. I do it because they want me to. World of difference, buddy."

"Are we done with this conversation?" Arthur said, trying to get up.

"I'm not sure," Sandra said, gaze still locked on Eames. "Are we?"

They should have been. Eames wanted them to be. Instead he said, "Are you sure you can know the difference?"

Her gaze was steady, unflinching. "Not always," she said. "I have to trust them to tell me."

"And if they didn't?" Eames pressed. "If they told you what they thought you wanted to hear, because they wanted to do what you wanted? Because they loved you?"

"Is that what you think love is?" she said, and the pity in her eyes made Eames want to kick something.

~~

Alex walks a step back, blind, and another, nearly trembling. She feels sick, disoriented, unsure of herself. The world wobbles around her for a moment, or so it feels.

There's something wrong with her.

 _Look, this isn't the time_ , she tells her own treacherous mind. _Just let me get out of here and I'll do something about it._ Therapy, likely, all over again. Fuck, she hates shrinks. Still, better than this, that this sudden loss of self that had her immersed in the life of someone who doesn't even exist.

The worst of it is, she looks at the mirror again and it's not a mirror anymore, just a painting. Not the one she came here for, either. It's a woman, huddled in a bundle of clothes that looks like it's trying to eat her alive. There's a dark patch in the middle that makes Alex think of guts leaking out, of bodies ridden with bullet holes, blood draining out.

 _Colorful black_ , she thinks, and banishes the thought. She has no idea what the fuck it even means. Black isn't even a proper color.

~~

Bayliss is waiting for her outside, with a grin she wants to punch off his face. "Did you get it?" he asks.

"No," she says curtly, because fuck him. Her bad mood is at least partially his fault, she thinks, so he may as well get some of it aimed at him.

"Nevermind," he says. "Your man came and got it." He's looking back at the place where the statue was, an odd expression on his face. "What's that?"

"What?" she says, and turns around. There's a flatness there, incongruously dark against the grass. "Oh, that. I think it leads to a storage space or something." There's an itch in the back of her mind. A door, locked, it means... something. "They put things away there."

"Put away," he says, distantly, then turns to look at her. They're nearly of a height. She's not a short woman.

She takes a step back, discomfited. "When is my guy coming back?"

"We have twenty minutes," Bayliss says, and takes a step forward. She needs to push him away, but if she does, that's still contact, he might take that as encouragement, shit _shit_ ** _shit_**.

"Back off," she says. He doesn't, but he doesn't move closer, either. Small victory. "I'm serious. Back the fuck off, okay? Let's finish this job without doing anything stupid."

"You know what's stupid?" he says. "Regrets. People are much likelier to regret what they haven't done than what they have, did you know that? And people still don't—"

There's a hand on Bayliss' shoulder. It's attached to—

For a moment, her brain comes up with a jumble of memories, images, the feeling of skin, a name, _Arthur_.

Then she blinks, and he's just the getaway driver again.

"We're done here," he says curtly, the driver, her guy (what's his actual name? She can't remember). "Get your asses in the truck or I'm leaving you here."

Bayliss comes after him, strangely docile, and Alex follows behind.

In the truck, she sits in the front while they're driving. The security guards are coming after them already. That's not good, she recognizes through the fog seeping through her mind. She takes a gun from the glove compartments and drops them, one at a time, as clean and dissociated as playing a computer game.

"Where are we going?" she finds herself asking, and dreading the answer. She doesn't want to know, there's a bit of her that _does_ know and it's hiding from itself. The driver doesn't answer, just pulls a sharp turn. She shoots at the sniper she sees on a roof right ahead.

They drive around for what feels like hours, until a cell phone rings. The driver looks at it, frowns, then stops the truck.

"Hey," he says, oddly gentle, and reaches for another gun. "Shall I?"

"What are you talking about?" she demands, nervous, but she knows. Should have known all along.

"Eames," he sighs, as if to himself. Then he has the gun trained on her, muzzle on the soft skin below her jaw. "Say when," he says, like this is some kind of sick game.

She should be fighting, should be doing anything but closing her eyes and saying, "Now." But that's what she does.

~~

Eames comes to, blinking, shaking himself mentally until he's lost all traces of Alex. Some forges are stronger than others, settling on you with some strange affinity that makes them harder to see through, but also harder to untangle one's self from. Eames doesn't think he'll use her again. That way madness lies.

Arthur's right beside him, for a moment, waiting for Cobb to get up and leave the dream. His expression is inscrutable, but he darts down and kisses Eames softly for the barest moment. Such a breach of professional behavior is most unlike Arthur, and Eames resolves to shake him down for answers.

Later, though. For now, they're getting up, and when Cobb finally rises, Arthur aims a gun at him.

Cobb looks like he's about to say something, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, "Shoot."

Arthur does. Head shots in dreams are odd things, just a little red blot on someone's forehead rather than the gory explosions they are in real life. Or maybe it's just Arthur's tidy little mind.

Then Arthur turns the gun at him. Eames just nods, and then he's blinking himself awake again with the noises of a moving train rushing around him.

~~

They split up, after the job, taking separate routes. Ariadne nods at Eames as she turns away, mouthing _Call me_. Even Arthur takes another way home, veering sharply away at the platform. Eames rents a car.

It's only a few hours, but they're all his. He's grateful for it, actually, the chance to clear his head from this job, to think. Eames is slightly worried.

Alex was Alex; you don't always know how you'll react to characters before you try them on under field conditions, so Eames can't beat himself up too much about that. And anyway it worked out in the end, worked beautifully. Eames could tell as much from Cobb's satisfied expression as they left the dream.

But the mirrors. Those weren't entirely expected.

It's a classic technique. Forgers, especially careless or inexperienced ones, often can't keep a good hand on their reflections. What you see is sometimes painfully far from what you should get. Eames himself tends to come out in mirrors as – well, himself, but others are less fortunate. People become forgers for all manner of reasons, and self-loathing is hardly an uncommon one.

So he built this aversion into Alex, made her hate and fear mirrors, but he didn't know _why_ until he became her. Shockingly remiss of him, in hindsight; then again, hindsight. Nothing to be done for that.

The bit with the painting is the one that troubles him. Now that he's in his own right mind, he can think of it by name: _Portrait of Emiliana Concha De Ossa_. Not a particularly well known piece, by an artist most people have never heard of.

And still, she was Eames' first love. That she bubbled into the surface of the dream is... troubling.

But there's no use worrying about that now. Eames turns up the radio to muffle his thoughts. Home, soon. Home, and Arthur. That should make everything better.

~~

In spite of everything, deep down inside, Arthur is a creature of habit. Eames has long known this, observed the fact over numerous jobs. After a job, Arthur will – almost without fail – get drunk off his arse and go searching for a good hard fuck. Contrarily, when he finds said fuck, Arthur will as often as not proceed to be as hostile as humanly possible.

This pattern has manifested in odd ways over the course of their relationship. Arthur does get drunk, becomes simultaneously handsy and sulky. Eames finds this endearing, more than anything, content to let Arthur play push-and-pull until he succumbs and drags Eames to bed, pawing at him and writhing.

As a matter of fact, Eames is quite looking forward to this. There's something reliable about Arthur's body. Eames is good with his hands, whatever other failings he may have, and it's comforting to know that he can give Arthur pleasure, especially when he so obviously needs it.

So it's something of a surprise to come home and find Arthur stone-cold sober and pacing the kitchen.

"Darling?" Eames says, uncertain of himself and exasperated with it.

Arthur looks up at him, his lovely face blank, and says, "Will you fuck me if I ask you to?"

"I—" Eames swallows his answer, because – well, satisfaction, right, obviously, and he did say he'd do whatever Arthur wanted, but—

But Arthur's ears are turning red, and he rapidly says, "I mean. Your fingers." The blush deepens, painful-looking. "I want—"

Relief blooms through Eames – that, yes, of course he will. "Of course," he repeats aloud. "Come to bed, Arthur."

It's strange, seeing all Arthur's accumulated post-job nervous energy focused so clearly, without the haze of alcohol or the distractions of the games played inside his own mind to take away from it. How he takes his clothes off to reveal lovely soft skin that Eames' fingers itch to touch; how he lies in the bed without a word.

Eames wastes no time undressing, coming to lie beside Arthur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, smoothing a hand down his back. "How do you want it?"

"Just," Arthur says, "this," and he rolls to lie on his back, legs spread.

There's a tube of lubricant in the nightstand drawer. Eames doesn't often need it, but he knows Arthur does, hears the slick noises when Arthur's fingering himself in the dark of night. And now, with Arthur spread out and looking at him beseechingly, that seems like such a dreadfully lonely thought that Eames can't bear it.

So he kisses Arthur, deep and thorough and _good_ , trying to put all the depth of his affection into it, as he touches Arthur in the way he asked for.

Eames enjoys this, too, in a strange way. The freedom to touch Arthur where no one else is allowed to, where he's vulnerable, easy to hurt or please. Eames is trying hard for the latter.

The technicalities aren't difficult, things Eames mastered years before in other relationships for far worse reasons. Arthur gasps when Eames pushes a finger into him, head tilting back into the pillow. His eyes shut when Eames strokes him deep, the shadow of his eyelashes falling across his cheek, beautiful and strangely fragile.

There is a method to this, a way to make Arthur come apart, and Eames follows it. He kisses Arthur, mumbles nonsense into his ear. He's not certain whether Arthur wants a hand on his cock or not, but the question's rendered moot when Arthur curses and grabs himself, coming messily over the two of them.

When Eames tries to move away to get a towel, Arthur holds onto him. Eames lies down, arms open, and lets Arthur burrow into him securely.

"You'll be filthy in the morning," he says, just as a reminder.

"I know." Arthur's forehead is damp against Eames' shoulder. The friction where their thighs meet is fascinating, a combination of the sharp drag of hair and the sweet cling of skin. Eames kisses Arthur's face, over and over, unable to stop, not wanting to.

Arthur doesn't push him away. Never did, not once since they started this – well, a few times, perhaps, out of some misguided worry for Eames' feelings or some such nonsense. But not for sheer irritation, never out of an honest wish not to be touched. Arthur just turns his face up, falling fast asleep, a welcome weight growing steadily heavier.

He is truly, truly lovely, his Arthur, his face and his hands and his skill with a gun, and Eames is hopelessly consumed by devotion to him.

Eames has a tendency to fall in love with beautiful things, to desire them in the way that they were made to be experienced, and that's well enough when they're paintings or sculptures. Art is meant to be looked at, but people are meant to be touched. If Eames had to stay away from Arthur as they are, as this goes, he can't imagine what he'll do with himself. He tightens his arms around Arthur, who squirms sleepily within Eames' grasp.

Right now, with the warmth of them in their nest of blankets, it's hard to imagine refusing Arthur anything, hard to imagine anything but want. Eames smoothes down Arthur's hair, a gesture turned into habit by now. Arthur responds by stirring and trying to extricate himself.

"Going somewhere?" Eames says, nonsensical and maudlin after the exertions of the day.

"Gotta get clean," Arthur says blearily. His attempt to move away is half-hearted at best, and he stills when Eames presses him back against the bed.

"Stay here," Eames says, and moves to find a wet towel to clean his darling with.

"That wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be," Arthur says, eyes half-open as Eames washes him clean.

"What?" Eames puts the towel aside where it'll dry without making everything smell of damp.

"Asking." Arthur's eyes flutter close. Eames feels odd for a second, unsure. He wishes he could be entirely certain Arthur wasn't being sarcastic, but Arthur's already asleep when he thinks to ask.

He can't fall asleep as easily, so he moves away, to spend the night next to his laptop. No point in waking Arthur because he's restless. He's browsing idly when something pops – a Google search alert.

"Is that so," he says, to himself.

He's startled to hear, "What?" from behind him. Arthur's leaning against the wall, rumpled and sleepy, ridiculously soft-looking. Eames yields to temptation and leaves his chair to lean into the wall next to Arthur, tucking am arm around his waist.

"Why are you up?" he says into Arthur's neck.

He feels rather than sees Arthur shrug. "Woke up and you weren't there."

The burst of warmth this fills Eames with is truly ridiculous. "Go back to bed, darling. I'll be along shortly."

Arthur snorts. "Right. _Shortly_. By which you mean _at five AM_."

It's a short enough span of times by some comparisons, but Eames is too drained for even that familiar argument. He huffs and untangles himself from Arthur.

"And besides," Arthur says, closing the distance Eames opened between them, "I want to know what you were talking to yourself about."

No point in keeping it a secret, especially since it's likely to be relevant to the job. "I keep track," Eames says, "of several pieces – if they get sold, I make sure to get a notification. Mostly it's for items of personal interest—" Arthur nods understanding at this "—but I also tracked the sculpture we tried to capture Bayliss with."

"And something just pinged," Arthur says, lips curving into a small smile. "So what are you waiting for? Let's take a look."

But when Eames clicks on it, it's the wrong name. "It's a painting," Arthur says, reaching for the screen and dropping his hand. His brow furrows in a small frown. "This looks familiar. I think I've seen it somewhere."

Likely he did, inside Eames' head if not elsewhere. "False alarm," Eames says, closing the tab.

"Are you coming to bed now?" Arthur asks.

Eames stands up and kisses him. "Two minutes. On the clock." Arthur rolls his eyes at him, but goes. Eames opens the tab again.

 _"Portrait of Emiliana" by Giovvani Boldini was sold to an unknown bidder for—_

Eames shuts the laptop lid before looking at the price. Doubtlessly it won't be what she's worth. Arthur's expecting him in bed. Best not keep him waiting.

~~

They take another job soon after that, at Arthur's insistence.

"I need to get the taste of Cobb's _idiocy_ out of my mouth," he mutters, but Eames knows his heart's not really into it since Arthur decorated the envelope containing Cobb's share of the take with a little smiley face.

The job's a simple in-and-out, one level, the two of them putting it quickly together. It's a few hours by plane, then sneaking into the mark's apartment. It's almost fun, actually. It's no complicated art heist, but Eames will never cease to be charmed by the sight of Arthur wielding bolt cutters.

Arthur goes to poke at the mark's mental safes, and Eames lurks around and sees to it that the projections don't get too unruly. Everything goes just fine, until he feels something cold at the base of his neck and everything goes black.

~~

The first thing he sees, coming awake, is Arthur's snarling face.

"Did we get it?" he says, blearily.

"That's not the fucking question," Arthur says. His face is white, tight-lipped with fury. "The question would be, where the fuck did you disappear to for an hour and a half?"

Eames opens his mouth to answer, closes it again. "Places," he says, briefly. The memory is vague, but it feels like it's fading in reverse, growing clearer as time passes instead of the other way around. There was a vault, and a hall, and a woman in a shawl... Something, perhaps he's just spouting bits of half-memorized poetry. Probably it's nothing.

Arthur's eyes are quick on him, darting up and down Eames' form. Checking for damage, most likely. Arthur's hardly going to ogle him in this place and time. From the slow relaxation of Arthur's posture, Eames supposes he passed inspection. More so when Arthur defrosts enough to nod and say, "We got the intel." A smile cracks across his face. "You should have seen the moves I pulled in the glasshouse section. Remind me to tell you about it later." The frown reappears. "But don't think I'm letting you off the hook."

"Darling," Eames says, motioning until Arthur gives him a hand up. "I'm well aware that I'm quite thoroughly hooked, with no hope of reprieve. There's really no need to grind it in further."

Arthur helps him up, and Eames briefly treasures the strength of Arthur's grasp, the rough  
beauty of the skin of his palms. They're working hands, and Eames always had a weakness for well-wrought instruments.

"Puns won't get you out of this, either," Arthur says warningly, but Eames can see the cracks in his resolve.

"How about flattery?" he says, winningly, and Arthur flips him off. Eames grins, then, and settles next to Arthur for the ride home, already counting cash in the back of his mind, gleeful, the last ninety minutes of the dream all but forgotten.

~~

The envelope is a good one, heavy cream-colored paper that Eames runs an appreciative finger across before ripping open.

He must have made a sound, opening it. From across the room, Arthur swivels around in his chair and asks, "What is it?"

"A job offer," Eames says, slightly strangled. "Of sorts."

Arthur rises. "Who's it from?" He's frowning a little. Their offers mostly go through him; he's the one with all the formalized contacts in his little black book.

 _This_ , Eames realizes distantly, _Is going to be very bad._ "From Bayliss," he says, at length.

Arthur stops where he is. "A double-cross?" His voice is warier than the question warrants. Arthur's done his share of professional treachery.

"No." Eames closes his eyes. "He wants me to do something personal for him." The paper specifies nothing, only a time and a place, but Eames knows the rest already. In hindsight, it's pretty fucking obvious, isn't it?

"Does he," Arthur says, quiet. He comes no closer. "And what is he paying?"

"Doesn't say." Although Eames knows. The payment is in what Bayliss won't do, if Eames is obedient.

Arthur goes back to his chair, turning to his work. He doesn't say anything.

"So," Eames says, slipping the paper back into the envelope. "What do you think?"

Arthur's back is turned to Eames, but Eames can see tension writ plainly in the set of his shoulders. "Why the hell are you even bothering to ask me?" Arthur's voice is dull and flat.

"Oh, I don't know," Eames says, in the sing-song voice he knows Arthur detests. "Perhaps because I believed we were a team. Or because I respect your bloody opinion, how about that?"

"But you know what I'm going to say." _If Arthur doesn't turn around in the next two minutes_ , Eames silently vows, _I will strangle him until he's sorry._ "And you're going to do it anyway. So why bother asking?"

Eames is oddly hurt by this. "I wouldn't," he says. Arthur, at last, turns to him, with such a disbelieving look that it's practically an insult. "I wouldn't," Eames says again, softer. "For all that you may think of me, I wouldn't involve you in something like this without your approval."

"No," Arthur says, tensely. "You'd just go and do it yourself, because _that's_ much better, you taking a job like this with no fail-safes and no backup. That's just great."

"Believe it or not, Arthur, I have managed to take perfectly good care of myself before you came along," Eames snaps, out of patience at last. "If I'm going to talk to you about this, you could at least do me the kindness of _listening_ to the actual bloody words coming out of my mouth."

Arthur stands up and walks to Eames, determination written in the set of his shoulders and the rigid lines of his arms. "This isn't a choice for me," Arthur says, quiet and intense. "If you go in, so do I. So if you've already made that choice for me, at least have the decency to stop being such a fucking asshole about it."

Eames stares at Arthur. "You shouldn't come into this," he says at last. "This is a bad deal. I know it is."

Arthur leans closer, right up in Eames' personal space. "Then why," his voice rises momentarily, then quieted again, "take it?"

Eames lets out a long breath. He'd close his eyes if he thought it would do any good.

"Because I've no choice, either," he says, and Arthur blinks and takes a step back.

"There's always a choice," he says, the bloody hypocrite. "You know what? I have a choice. You're right. I made it, and I'll stand by it. What's your excuse?"

"Why, Arthur," Eames says, a mirthless smile stretching across his lips. "Can't you tell? I'm doing it in the name of love."

"The fuck you are," Arthur says, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I don't even know why I'm trying. I knew this wasn't going to go anywhere." He turns to the office and shuts the door quietly behind him. Eames has a feeling he won't see Arthur again tonight.

And the hell of it is, Eames was completely fucking honest. He meant every single goddamned word.

~~

Eames didn't really remember it, when it happened, needed the time to understand and parse it, put it into words and store it in the back of his mind.

He thinks what he has now is a good approximation of how it went, and this is it.

~~

"Do you like the place?" Bayliss asked him, when he entered the corridor. "I try to keep my babies somewhere good."

The place wasn't bad, but there was something off about it. Eames had the uncomfortable feeling that if he looked at anything closely enough, he'd see the pixels. "We're dreaming," he said.

Bayliss waved this off. "Of course we are," he said. "We're both busy people, right? This means I don't have to actually kidnap you, transport you a considerable distance, and then take the time off my schedule. Besides," he said, and there's the sharp grin Eames remembered again, "this seemed... appropriate."

By now, Eames had figured out how this worked. "You were militarized twice," he said. Just as Arthur suspected. Appropriate, that.

Bayliss ignored him, which was pretty predictable, actually. This wasn't Bayliss, not really. It was something else, more like a recording of him than anything. A living memory, likely planted in their mark, worming its way into Eames by pathways wrought during the job they did on Bayliss.

Instead of saying anything, Bayliss pulled a cord, and a curtain behind him parted. Eames was only sort of surprised so see it there.

Emiliana. This was just a dream reproduction of her, crude and untrue. Eames wanted to resent that Bayliss hasn't even bothered to rent a proper architect to get her _right_.

"So you did buy her," Eames murmured, resisting the urge to step closer. Damn fool thing, falling in love with a painting, but Eames always had a tendency to be foolish with his heart.

"I bought this," Bayliss said, looking past him to where Eames stood a moment ago. It's a little freaky-uncanny. More than it should be, considering. "I bought this for a very specific reason."

At this point, Eames started feeling distinctly unsettled.

"You reveal more about yourself than you think," Bayliss said, "going into people's dreams like that. Now, I did enjoy your attempt at deflection." He grinned, shark-like. "Sending me after who I'm told is one of the most deadly people in your field – that was nice. I do like a joke. But next time, please try a better diversion than trying to sell me a professional killer as your boyfriend."

Eames half-wanted to protest – Arthur was hardly anything as crude as a professional killer, but Bayliss wasn't likely to listen to him. Better if he didn't, in fact. Bayliss was right, Arthur could make short work of anyone they could send after him, but it was always preferable not to have to deal with little annoyances like assassination attempts.

"But the painting," Bayliss said. "When they told me about that, I believed."

And, right, of course there was a trap. Of course there was something in Bayliss' brain that had teeth to bite back. A name passes through Eames' mind, a memory – Pierre, Arthur mentioned that name, but Eames knew it before, too. Pierre l'Ingénieur, who builds trapdoors into minds, who puts neat little points of entry in an intruder's dreams. Far less flashy than Althea's work, but just as deadly.

There's little to no point in Eames beating himself up over it, although he feels like he should, just for form's sake.

Well, nothing for it. "What is it you want, then? Revenge?" If that was so, well, revenge could take more than one shape. He might just want to make Eames grovel, humiliate him a bit. For the sake of love, Eames can take that.

Bayliss' eyes met his, and Eames was hard-pressed to remember that he wasn't actually talking to a person. That the thing in front of him resembled a glorified projection more than anything else.

"I want," Bayliss' shade said, "your forgery. I want Alex."

Which was a fucking joke, all right. Eames laughed humorlessly. "You can bloody go on wanting, mate."

They were obviously in the audience participation stage of this little charade. Bayliss leaned closer and said, conversationally. "You'll do what I tell you, Mr. Eames. Because if you don't, I'll personally set fire to this painting and mail you the ashes."

Oh, _fuck_ Bayliss. Eames wanted to snarl at this, and only barely reined himself in. "I don't believe you," he said instead, which was true. He and Bayliss may not have the same tastes, but Eames recognized this in Bayliss: He didn't have it in him to destroy anything beautiful.

Bayliss laughed, short and mirthless. "You think?" The projection casually flicked a lighter and leaned back, letting the flames lick casually at the painting. Eames gritted his teeth. _Just a dream_ , he reminded himself. It wasn't even a particularly good reproduction.

"I want her," Bayliss said while the fire ate into the canvas and the dyes. "I want your Alex. And if I can't have her, then trust me when I say," he pulled the lighter away for a moment, "I will burn _everything_ I own to the ground before I let her go."

Eames couldn't restrain himself from saying, "Is that what you think love is?"

But the projection wasn't listening anymore, had pulled back to watch the painting burn, dispassionately. "It was fucking ugly, anyway," he said, and Eames lunged at him and woke to see Arthur, enraged.

~~

Arthur goes quiet when he's angry, withdraws and pulls himself tightly closed. Eames hates it, but he frankly doesn't see anything he can do about it at the moment. He calls Ariadne, because she asked, and to take his mind off things.

Her voice is cheerful on the other end. She occasionally halts the conversation to yell instructions in Portuguese at some unknown entity. Eames doesn't ask.

"How's Sandra?" he asks during a lull in the conversation, just for something to say.

"Ask her yourself," Ariadne says, and passes the phone before Eames can object.

"Fine, thank you," Sandra says a moment later. "I suppose you want her back now?"

"Unless you've got something else to say." He's sorry already for being short with her, but honestly, he doesn't feel like dealing with this right now.

"Don't take your problems out on Ari," Sandra says, and all right, she's fairly observant, he'll give her that.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, and gets Ariadne back for his troubles.

"Um," she says, after a lengthy dissertation on the subject of ergonomics as applied to wide-scale design (or something similar. Possibly Eames has not been paying as much attention as he should), "so. How's Arthur?"

"Fine," Eames says. "You were saying, about ideal distances...?"

Ariadne snorts. "Yeah, try harder, buddy."

He's never needed to, frankly. It was always sufficient to just mention anything relating to Ariadne's latest obsession to set her off-course.

"I'm learning," she says, quietly, after he mentions something along that line. "Let's just say, some people said things. I'm trying to be better."

Which is very nice for her, Eames supposes, but to him this is rather inconvenient at this time. "Never listen to them," he says, because he might as well try a distraction.

"Eames." And nothing more, until he sighs and says, "Fine, he's not talked to me for a week. Happy now?"

She makes a strangled noise. "What did you do?"

"What makes you think it was _me_ who did anything?" But Eames recognizes this as the petulant nonsense it is the minute it leaves his mouth, and amends by saying, "Nothing I had much of a choice about."

"Just tell me you didn't sell him to the highest bidder," Ariadne says. "Because if you did, we can't be friends anymore."

"I didn't—" Eames says, disgusted. "Honestly, some days I don't even know why I talk to you."

"You love me," she says, unrepentant. "Also, who else will listen to your lovesick ramblings?"

"I do not ramble," Eames says severely. "I have no idea what you are going on about, and if you persist in this line of thinking, I will hire thugs to destroy your car."

There's laughter in stereo coming from the other side of the line. How kind of Ariadne to mention that she was putting him on speaker phone.

"Sorry," Sandra says, gasping. "But you have no idea how much you sounded like Arthur for a minute there."

Well, now that Eames thinks about it, he knows exactly how much like Arthur he sounded. Which is just adding insult to injury, really. Arthur's ingrained in him now, imprinted deeper than habit, to a level where Eames couldn't pull Arthur out of his life if he wanted to.

He sinks into a glum silence until the giggles on the other end dissipate. "I really am sorry," Sandra says. Eames has difficulties hearing her over the noises at the other end. He seriously considers just hanging up. "Look, you should know. Arthur's serious, okay? He's always serious. Give him some time to calm down and you'll sort it out. Don't worry about it too much."

"'Course not," Eames says, with a cheer he doesn't feel. "Can't see what I could possibly have to worry about." Then he hangs up the phone, because he's a grown man and therefore entitled to a good sulk if he feels like one.

~~

Of course he worries.

The worst of it is, he can tell that if he apologizes, if he makes even the smallest concession, Arthur will be all over himself trying to put things back together. Eames reads Arthur's silences easily now, the small twitches in his movements. Arthur doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to stay angry at Eames. He just needs one gesture, the tiniest possible thing Eames can give.

Eames can't give him anything.

Because he has to take this job. Has to do it – the alternative is unthinkable. Can't take Arthur with him, either, because there's no use making a bad job worse.

Bayliss thinks he's in love with Alex. He might as well be in love with a character from a story for all the good that'll do him, but he's decided to delegate the hopelessness of this situation by dumping it into Eames' lap. Splendid.

The requisite solution to this problem is a simple theft, but Eames has received an anonymous email the day after he received the call. It contained a detailed listing of the publicly known security measures in Bayliss' facilities. They are... prohibitively well-made.

Normally Eames would treat that kind of thing as a challenge, but the letter also contained a photo of the painting, an unlit lighter held underneath it. Eames caved.

He's been working on Alex since, bringing her into sharper and sharper contrast, going into a ludicrous level of details on her history, her psyche. Trying to make her into someone he could bear to be, someone he could cast off afterwards with no ill effects.

Eames has no way of knowing whether it will work until he tries. He dreads the attempt.

~~

The meeting is on a Thursday. Eames has no preparations at all to make for it. He goes armed, of course, but it's only a gun in an ankle holster, which he'll likely be frisked of in any case. Weapons are more likely to be a hindrance than a help in this case.

He doesn't bring a PASIV, mostly out of the childish hope that if they don't have one this whole thing could be rendered moot. He's practiced his character over and over. He has a train ticket and some change in his pocket, and nothing else.

Arthur's sitting at the kitchen table, pointedly not looking at Eames except when he turns his back. Then Eames can feel Arthur's eyes on him, boring into him, like they're trying to cut Eames up into manageable pieces.

On impulse, Eames turns back, fast enough to catch Arthur at it. Arthur has the grace not to quickly avert his eyes.

"You'll be staying here," Eames says, for confirmation.

"You didn't ask me to come." Arthur looks at him steadily. "So that's a yes," he adds, when Eames stares at him.

"Promise me you'll stay here tonight," Eames says, softer than he means to. It just escapes from his mouth like that.

Arthur slowly straightens in his seat. Eames takes in the picture he makes, greedy, the curl of Arthur's hair barely touching his shoulders, his fine dark eyes, his graceful fingers, his soft mouth pursed in disapproval. "Why should I?" Arthur says, and Eames wants to go to him, to lay hands on Arthur, to apologize and stay and shut away everything else.

"Because I asked," Eames says, and after a moment Arthur nods.

"I promise," he says. "I'll stay here."

"Good," Eames says, then turns away and gets the fuck out before he can change his mind.

If he could, he'd paint a picture of Arthur as he was, right then and there, tuck it into his wallet for safekeeping. But that's no help, really. He doesn't even have his wallet on him.

~~

It's strange, not breaking in. Eames has done his share of playing a legitimate corporate businessperson, but that's all it ever was. Playing. It makes him feel odd not to have that tiny frisson of excitement, knowing he might get caught.

They keep him waiting in a nondescript room for interminable minutes before Bayliss decrees he's ready to receive him.

"Thank you for coming," Bayliss says when Eames enters the office. Eames smiles at him tightly. He doesn't feel like playing games right now, thank you very much.

"Do you have a PASIV?" he asks.

Bayliss pulls one out from under his desk, wordlessly, and there goes Eames' best idea.

"Five minutes," Bayliss says. "To start with."

"Who synthesized your material?" Eames says. "I'm not using any old crap, you know."

"You're not in any position to be making demands, Mr. Eames," Bayliss says mildly. "Also, you're stalling."

So Eames shuts the fuck up and lies down, extending his arm for the IV like the good boy he really isn't.

It's a stupid thing he's doing, he does realize that. Likely the dumbest thing he'll ever do, less for sheer magnitude and more for the growing unlikeliness he'll be able to walk away from this. The more he dreams with Bayliss, the more sensitive information Bayliss will be able to get out of him, more soft spots for Bayliss to use against him.

If Bayliss thinks he's in love, once won't be enough for him, and he'll have the leverage to get more out of Eames. Doubtlessly he'll tire of Alex eventually – he's this sort of person – but that's not the question.

Alex was terrifyingly hard to shake off, that one time. Another is very unlikely to be good for Eames. Slipping into her repeatedly, for interaction-intense scenarios...

The IV is set, and Eames closes his eyes.

~~

In the dream, he's alone, and the room is full of mirrors.

He has no idea why this is. Perhaps Bayliss is trying to help, in his way. It's true that getting into a forge is easier with a visual aid, but Eames knows Alex by heart now, can find his way into her by feel. And once he does, those mirrors are not going to make her happy.

Long moments pass until Eames finds a door. He opens it to see a small room, not unlike the office they were just in. The two lawn chairs and the PASIV waiting there are almost painfully predictable. Bayliss is already lying in one of said chairs, wired in. Of course five minutes wouldn't actually be enough, for Bayliss. Of course he wouldn't want his employees to know that.

What is less expected – and therefore takes him a moment to see – is Ariadne, standing over Bayliss' body.

Eames looks at her, up and down, takes in her immaculate suit, the coiffed bun her hair's held in. It's rarely that Eames finds himself at a loss for words, and now is one such time.

"Oh, good," Ariadne says, straightening from where she'd been kneeling over Bayliss, "you haven't changed yet. I was worried I was going to have to deal with your forge."

"Perfectly nice person once you get to know her," Eames answers automatically before bursting into, "what are you _doing_ here?"

"Looking after your sorry ass," she says. Her eyes have an utterly guileless look that Eames doesn't trust for a second. "Specifically, I'm here because Arthur asked me to."

Eames is torn between _that slimy bastard_ and helpless pure adoration. Of course Arthur did. "And now that you're here," he says, "what do you intend to do?"

"Uh, my job?" Her mouth quirks into a smile. "Look, go down to the other level. But don't go into the forge until you see Bayliss. Trust me, okay?"

Eames takes a long look at her. If this fails, Ariadne stands to be in the same position he is. Between the two of them, they're likely to drag Arthur in after them. It's a terrible idea. Eames ought to call it off. He's frankly lost control over this entire situation.

Oh, bugger it. Eames had no control over the situation to begin with. He lies down and lets Ariadne set him up. She has quick careful hands, which Eames appreciates.

"Trust me," Ariadne says as he sinks deeper. "I know what I'm doing." Eames has no choice but to believe her, because, at this point, what good would doubting do?

~~

The second level is a garden, which Eames didn't expect.

He thinks he spots Ariadne's touches, here and there, in the unlikely level of detail in a bug's carapace, in how the brilliant blue of the sky washes into gray at the edges. But it might just be wishful thinking. It occurs to him that the Ariadne he saw might be no more than a projection, conjured by his mind to soothe him in a stressful situation. He doesn't ponder it much. That way madness lies.

The garden is quiet, a pre-dawn hush in spite of the midday look of the light. Eames walks on well-raked gravel paths, taking in the scent of the flowers. He doesn't take Alex's form. Not yet.

A small eternity passes until the curved paths straighten. The peaceful drone of the few solitary bugs dies down, replaced by a louder, more insistent beat. It quickens as Eames moves along. The vegetation grows thicker, wilder, until Eames moves from a tame garden into what feels like a jungle, riotous around him in color and sound.

Then he reaches a small clearing, and an abrupt silence.

Bayliss is in there, with his back turned to Eames. Eames takes a deep breath, and becomes.

It's imperfect, wrong – he can tell as soon as he assumes her form that he's doing it wrong. For once, he's still thinking as himself. He's not sure what he did and how it happened, but he's lost who Alex is and he can't find her.

He's starting to worry that this is going to be a problem when Bayliss turns around, his face twisting in confusion.

"Honey?" he says, and that's all the warning Eames gets before his face gets ground into the dirt.

"That's not me," he hears a voice growl above him, near-hysterical and too familiar for comfort. "That bitch can't wear my face. She's not _me_."

"Of course," Bayliss says, almost frantic himself. "Of course she isn't. Come here, honey, we'll fix it."

The weight slowly lifts off Eames' back. He feels the cold muzzle of a gun against the back of his neck.

"Stand up," Alex snarls, and Eames rises to his feet, hands held above his head.

"I've got her," Bayliss said. "You come here now, sweetie. Come here to me." _Like he's talking to a dog_ , Eames thinks, disgusted.

Alex walks to him. Eames doesn't dare turn around, so he sees her when she walks around him, gun still carefully trained on him, walking backwards to Bayliss. Her doe's eyes are wide, her hair unkempt and tousled artistically. No leaves in her hair, and the tears Eames can see tracking down her face have left no redness in her eyes.

"It's fine," Bayliss whispers into her hair. "It's fine, she's not you, I'd know you anywhere," until she collapses against him, sobbing, gun falling soundlessly on the mossy ground. She grips Bayliss' arms hard. Eames can see him wince even as he pulls her closer.

Eames can't be anything but glad when Bayliss takes up that gun, aims and puts Eames out of their collective misery.

~~

Bayliss is still asleep in the first level, but Ariadne is nowhere to be seen. Eames conjures a gun and get the hell out.

When he comes awake, Ariadne's crouching over him with a little frown. "Name, rank and serial number," she says.

"Eames, High Lord Forger, forty-two," he says, just to be a prick. Then he blinks and takes in the state of the room around them. "Did you actually manage to kill everyone and get rid of the bodies in five minutes? Impressive."

"Arthur mentioned you'd be an asshole about this," Ariadne says. "I should start listening to him more often."

Eames doesn't disagree with the sentiment, especially since it appears to have gotten him out of a particularly unpleasant fix. "What's our situation?" Automatically, he reaches for the gun that they took off him hours ago. Ariadne hands him another one. Eames checks to see if it's loaded and that the safety's on before standing up.

"Put that away," Ariadne says. "I only brought it because Arthur says it'll make you feel better. Don't ask me why I even cared about that."

"Your wish," Eames says and obeys. Following her out of the room, he tries to look as meek and boring as any corporate hireling, to possibly exude harmlessness.

They make it out of the building, down into the parking lot, and into Ariadne's car before Eames allows himself to think. He exhales and sags into the seat, staring at the car's ceiling.

"Sandra'll be here in a moment," Ariadne says, not unkindly. "So if you want to have a nervous breakdown, now's your chance."

In fact, Eames would very much like to have a good nervous breakdown, hopefully preceded by a good stiff drink and followed by a good night's sleep. But not here, not now, and certainly not with Ariadne for an audience. As much to distract himself as for any other reason, he asks, "Was that your doing down in the other level?"

Ariadne's eyes have that shine they get when discussing the finer technical points of dreamsharing. "Tell me exactly what happened."

Eames does. By the time he finishes, Sandra reaches the car. She slips into the back seat, leaning forward to take Ariadne's hand. "Everything's okay," Sandra says.

"Great." Ariadne squeezes her hand, then turns her attention back to Eames. "Okay. So you remember what I did with the sculpture in Bayliss' dream?" Eames nods. "It was part of something else I was working on.

"See, you can imbue dream scenery with emotion. And you can make the scenery move. Program it, if you want to think of it like that."

"Projection-crafting, yes," Eames says. "I am familiar with the concept."

Ariadne rolls her eyes. "Yes, because I'd be here telling you about stuff I've seen you _do_. No, this is more than that. Actually, you might want to call what I do true projection-crafting. Mine are versatile, like the puppet-controlled ones forgers make," like the ones Eames himself can make, "but they don't require an actual controller." Like the Bayliss-shade that spoke to Eames in a dream. Which is a fantastic claim, that she can make an independent entity and plant it in someone's brain, without even the benefits of an inception to make it take hold.

"I don't know if I could have done this if he didn't _really want_ to believe," Ariadne says to his skeptic look. "But hey, you saw it yourself. You tell me it can't be done."

True enough. And still. "She wasn't what I created," Eames says slowly. "She was all – " he waggles his hand, not certain himself what he wants to communicate. "Fragile." His Alex was bone-tough, hard and worn as leather. Not that overwrought little thing.

"She was what he wanted," Ariadne says, and Eames nods slowly because he's fairly fucking sure she's right, actually.

"Okay," Sandra says. "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" And as Ariadne puts the keys in the ignition, "Also, you two owe us big time for this."

"How did you even get in the building?" Eames asks, and Sandra laughs and starts recounting the tale as Ariadne takes them out of there.

~~

He's not sure what he expected, walking into their apartment, but it wasn't a double armful of furious, anxious Arthur.

"You idiot," Arthur says, "you fucking goddamned stupid asshole _idiot_." The impression this leaves is a little less harsh than is should be, possibly because Arthur keeps stopping to kiss him. Eames is hardly going to object to that, but it does seem a little incongruous.

"I'm sorry," Eames says the moment Arthur gives him space to breathe. "I am well and truly fucking sorry, really I am."

Arthur opens and closes his mouth. Then he looks at the ground and says, "Okay, look, before this evening is over I'm probably going to have to apologize a number of times. So let's wait until we've sorted everything out before we figure out who's sorrier."

"Apologies don't work like that," Eames says, irritable. Then he parses what Arthur actually just said, and says, "Are you going to actually apologize for saving my—" he hastily substitutes "arse," for ‘sanity’. No point being overly melodramatic.

"Not a fucking chance," Arthur says. "But. Um. I may have done some other things."

"Arthur," Eames says apprehensively. "Does this involve bodies?" He remembers who he's speaking to, and changes tack. "How many bodies? Have you already hidden them?"

"No fucking bodies," Arthur says, adorably cross. "In case you forgot, I'm not actually a fucking amateur," and Eames can't help himself, has to go and kiss Arthur breathless. He's missed this, so bloody much, more than he can even articulate.

"Okay," Arthur says, once Eames pulls away. "Okay, look." He leads Eames to the living room, where—

She's right there, hanging on their wall. Eames keeps his distance but devours her with his eyes, the lovely lines of her, the smile that he could never remember properly.

He can see, in that smile, what he fell in love with – a reluctant ecstasy that he could never quite emulate. The shawl wrapped around her, keeping her safe, hidden, bound. Keeping the darkness inside her from coming out, for better or worse. If it weren't for the smile, she'd be just like anyone, really.

Easy to understand why his young, impressionable self could fall so hard for this image, the idea he found in it. It moves him still, as he is now, hopefully years beyond that kind of adolescent sentimentality.

Then he turns around to ask, in a completely normal tone of voice _thank you very much_ , "Arthur. Did you just steal this painting for me?"

"Yeah," Arthur says without blinking, like it's obvious he'd do that. He does look a little sheepish, saying, "I broke into your computer to find out about it. Sorry about that."

Eames doesn't reply, so Arthur elaborates, "Look, obviously you wouldn't have done that if he didn't have some kind of leverage over you, right? So I broke into your emails to find out. Again, I'm really fucking sorry. But it was the only way I could think of to—" he waves his hand, frustrated. Eames captures it and kisses it.

"It's fine," Eames says, giddy. His computer and his email account are the least personal of all his belongings. He should be angry with Arthur for going through them, at least for form's sake, but in this place and time – oh, bugger it, Arthur's talking to him again, Arthur _stole a painting_ for him, Eames can't be bothered getting mad.

He sobers quickly, though, running a careful hand along the edge of the frame. "We can't just hang her here," he says, much as he'd like to. "This is no museum."

But of course Arthur knows this. He passes Eames a card. "A friend of mine's an art dealer," he says. "He could keep her somewhere safe, for us."

 _For us_ , Eames thinks, and _Arthur called the painting 'her'_ , this in spite of the fact that Arthur looks askance at anyone who names inanimate objects, with the possible exception of computers. He can't even take a step to kiss Arthur, because if he moves he feels he might burst with affection.

"How on Earth did you manage all this?" Eames asks, once he's gotten over that unfortunate episode. By this time they're sitting on the couch together, Eames' fingers thoroughly tangled in Arthur's soft hair.

"One bit at a time," Arthur murmurs, drowsy. "Fuck, I missed this. I hate going to sleep angry." He pokes Eames with his elbow, half-hearted. "You. Never be this stupid again, okay? If you'd just _told_ me, I could've fixed all this."

And that's the root of half their problems right there, isn't it? Eames keeping things from Arthur, Arthur prying when he shouldn't. "We're going to keep doing that, aren't we," Eames says, a little sadly, to the top of Arthur's head. "Playing around in circles like that."

"Actually," Arthur says, flopping down to rest his head in Eames' lap, "I don't see why we should. Call this a lesson, if you want. You should tell me stuff, and I should trust you to. End of story."

"It's not that simple," Eames says, but he's halted by the pure diamond-hard insistence in Arthur's gaze.

"It can be," Arthur says. "No reason it shouldn't. I don't know if you realize this, but you're stuck with me for good. So we can fight and be miserable, or we can talk about shit and be happy. Those are your choices, okay?"

"I can live with that," Eames agrees, tracing a line down Arthur's stomach, curling two fingers under the hem of his shirt. "You got it for me," he says, wonderingly, "I still can believe you stole the bloody painting for me."

"Nevermind that," Arthur says, "You know what you _should_ thank me for? Asking Sandra for a favor. Now there's something I never want to do again." He shudders dramatically.

"Why did you, then?" Eames says. Then, because Arthur's looking at him like he might have suffered brain damage after all, he says, "You never just told me not to go. You had to have known I wouldn't if you asked."

Arthur looks away, suddenly discomfited. Eames waits, patiently.

"But if I told you," Arthur says, quiet and unsure all of the sudden, "you wouldn't do it. And I could tell it was important to you, even if I didn't know why. I still don't understand, really. But that's not the question."

"What is, then?" Eames says when no more seems to be forthcoming.

"What would make you happy." Arthur says this with a quiet conviction, like it's something obvious. "I can't be happy unless you are."

Eames feels the breath catch in his throat, because yes, Arthur's exactly right. That is the answer to the question. The very same question that Eames has been asking himself for months now, without quite realizing it.

"That's what love is, isn't it?" he says, hushed.

Arthur makes a small embarrassed sound and says, "I guess," and Eames kisses him, knowing full well it's not a guess but fact, rock-solid and immutable.


End file.
